Chaos Theory
by Tessa Crowley
Summary: Chaos: when the present determines the future, but the approximate present does not approximately determine the future. One gene varies, one neuron fires, one butterfly flaps its wings, and Draco Malfoy's life is completely different. Draco has always found a certain comfort in chaos. Perhaps he shouldn't. Featuring Genius!Draco.
1. 28 May, 1990

**Author's Note:** This story will eventually get quite dark, and as such it comes with a heavy TRIGGER WARNING for graphic depictions of torture, physical violence, and murder. If these might trigger you I absolutely cannot recommend reading!

Further, in an effort to be spoiler-free, I cannot guarantee a happy ending (though by the same coin, I cannot guarantee a bad one, either). Read at your discretion!

* * *

_To be great is to be misunderstood._  
Oscar Wilde

* * *

For his tenth birthday, Draco asks his parents for a double pendulum. He has to explain what sets it apart from a standard pendulum (because if he doesn't, he's sure they'll get him the wrong present), and that leads to a lengthy conversation about what makes it so special.

He spends a frustrating ten minutes trying to explain chaotic physical systems and dynamic behavior before his mother cuts him off—

"Oh," she says, "so it's to help your little experiments!"

Hearing his work in chaos theory referred to as "little experiments" by a woman who couldn't tell Edward Lorenz from a hole in the ground is clearly a jab to the ego. He crosses his arms over his chest to announce his displeasure.

"My work is theoretical, not practical," he says. "It speaks to your understanding of the field that you think I would actually be able to replicate anything with a physical instrument as imprecise as a double pendulum."

"Draco," says his father, in that clipped, worldweary voice designed to make him feel guilty about being so difficult, "what purpose could a pendulum—"

"_Double_ pendulum."

"—could a _double_ pendulum possibly serve you?"

The truth is that it really doesn't serve a purpose, or at least not a practical one. As a mathematician, Draco wants a double pendulum for the same reason historians want a globe. It is a symbol of his chosen field. And beyond that, a double pendulum is, in itself, a reminder of chaos, not just in mathematics but in life, something to humble the informed observer to the entropy of the universe. Trust Draco's parents to not understand the value of symbolism.

And damn it, he just _wants_ one. Why are they being so difficult?

"I bet you wouldn't be this obstinate if I had asked for a Newton's cradle."

"It certainly would be easier to find than a pendulum."

"_Double_ pendulum!"

"What's wrong with a Newton's cradle?" his mother asks. "That's the same kind of science, isn't it?"

"It is not at all the same kind of science!" he says shrilly. "The purpose of a Newton's cradle is to demonstrate the preservation of energy. Thermodynamics have as much to do with chaos theory as a C-major scale has to do with Mozart's symphonies!"

"Stop being so dramatic, Draco," his father says, as he crosses the drawing room to pour himself a glass of brandy. "Where would we even find one?"

"I don't know. Gift shops? Catalogues?"

"I suppose we could have one specially built," his mother offers with a small frown.

By then, his father has filled his snifter and finished off two mouthfuls of brandy. "I suppose it would have been too much to hope for that you'd ask for a racing broom like a normal child," he says, eyeing him disdainfully.

Draco has never understood his parents' preoccupation with being normal. In any case, "normal" seems to be a nebulous concept that shifts depending on what Draco has done to disappoint them. Normal is, by turns, inoffensive, nonthreatening, unintelligent, quiet, and complacent. Whatever normal means, it sounds terrible.

"What possible use could I get out of a racing broom?" he asks.

His father glares at him. That Draco had never taken to flying has been a constant point of contention between them.

"Merlin give me strength," he mutters, finishing off his brandy in a very large swallow.

"Straight past the palate and into the gullet, Father. That is the way to drink a eighty-galleon bottle of brandy."

"Where did I go wrong in raising you?" he wonders out loud.

He bites back a comment about him not raising Draco at all. Most of his needs are met by house-elves. He'd only earned the title of father in the most superficial sense.

The fireplace behind him rushes, and when he turns, he immediately forgets all his frustration.

"Professor!"

Severus Snape has scarcely stood upright before Draco throws himself at him, and he stumbles back a few inches with a small noise of surprise. His long, black robe is ashy, but he blows away the bulk of it with a quick spell.

"Good morning, Draco," he says, neutrally.

"Thank goodness, Severus," his father says. "Will you please _do_ something with this little hellion?"

"Lucius," his mother chides, but she sounds more exhausted than upset.

"I've been tutoring him five days a week since he was four," Professor Snape says, resting a hand on Draco's hair. "What makes you think I'll have any luck this time around?"

Draco looks up at him with a smile. "Did you bring the textbook?" he asks.

"It's shrunken, in my robe pocket," he answers. "I can't get to it if you don't let me go."

He eagerly steps back, and Professor Snape reaches into his robe, producing a small, thimble-sized book that quickly expands in his hand. _DETERMINISTIC CHAOS_, the title reads, _AN INTRODUCTION_. It's a heavy, weathered, paperback tome, one that's obviously seen quite a bit of use. Not surprising, since Draco knows that it's from Professor Snape's old days at Cambridge.

At once Draco snatches it from his grasp and Professor Snape sighs at the impropriety, but Draco is too busy thumbing through the appendices to notice.

"An entire chapter on strange attractors!" Draco says, and he's so excited that he feels like he might cry. The only other book on the subject he's been able to find barely touches it.

"Let's go to the library and start the lesson proper," Professor Snape says, putting a guiding hand on Draco's shoulder. "Lucius, Narcissa."

"Good luck, Severus; Merlin knows you'll need it," his father says just before the sitting room door swings shut.

"What is it you did to get them so worked up, if I may ask?"

Draco makes a face. He's nearly found the chapter on strange attractors, though the speed at which he can turn pages is hindered by the speed at which he's walking.

"They asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told them I wanted a double pendulum."

Professor Snape sighs. "Draco, you must go easier on them. You can't expect them to know what a double pendulum is, let alone where to find one."

"The question was _what do you want for your birthday_, not _what do you want for your birthday that we can readily comprehend_. It's not my fault they're undereducated."

"They're not undereducated, Draco, you're just—"

Professor Snape stops short, sighs, and shakes his head. He doesn't bother saying it. There's no need to; they both know and saying it won't change anything. In any case, they've had this conversation too many times. Professor Snape has gleefully given up trying to make Draco appreciate or even tolerate his parents.

"What do you even want a double pendulum for?"

"It's a comforting metaphor," Draco answers. "I'd like to have one on my desk."

"You find chaos comforting?"

"I find the certainty of uncertainty comforting. Existence is meaningless, no one knows what's going on, and we are all eternally at the mercy of an uncaring universe. I just find it easier to embrace it than to hide behind our abstract concepts of order like they can really protect me."

"You're far too young to be such a nihilist."

"What's wrong with nihilism? Just because life is meaningless doesn't mean it's not worth living or understanding. I'd rather have interesting chaos than boring structure."

Together they enter the immense, two-story library of the Malfoy Manor. The large picture window overlooking the garden illuminates the room with the hazy yellow-white glow of early morning. Together, they take their usual seat at the table near the window by the nonfiction side, stacked with parchment and quills.

"You know," Professor Snape says, "if it's a symbol of chaos you're after, you've overlooked an alternative that would be much easier for them to acquire."

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. Professor Snape reaches into his robe and produces a small, black rubber ball. He bounces it once on the table demonstratively.

Draco grins. As an introduction to chaotic mathematics, they spent two weeks working out the physical dynamics of a bouncing ball.

"Now all I need is a sinusoidally vibrating table and a large, frictionless room," Draco says, taking the ball from Professor Snape's hand when it's offered to him.

"For that, you are on your own," Professor Snape says. "In the future, Draco, if you want to avoid confrontation with your parents, you should let them do something simple for you."

Draco frowns. Psychology was always Professor Snape's area of expertise, not his. "How would letting them help me be of any benefit?"

"It will make them feel useful to their otherwise self-sufficient son. Run an experiment for yourself and see."

Draco _does_ like experiments.

"I'll need a control group," he muses, studying the worn rubber of the ball. "I don't suppose you happen to know where I can get an identical set of parents."

Professor Snape doesn't rise to the joke. "Chapter eight," he says instead. "Let's talk about strange attractors."

Smirking, Draco sets the ball aside and picks up a quill.


	2. 31 July, 1991

_Hell is other people._  
Jean-Paul Sartre

* * *

He will be going to Hogwarts soon, and if Draco expends much more energy aggressively not caring about it he feels like he might implode on himself.

Draco knows what to expect from Hogwarts. He's tutored by a Hogwarts professor and is very familiar with the curriculum. He is confident that there is nothing of any academic or intellectual value he can gain from a Hogwarts education.

Pity that his attendance is required by law.

Today he is in Diagon Alley, at Madame Malkin's robe shop, getting fitted for his uniform. Never mind that he has plenty of perfectly serviceable black robes already that could be hemmed to Hogwarts regulation, his mother was insistent on buying a new set. He has been following Professor Snape's "let them feel useful" plan for over a year now, and to great success, so if letting his mother waste fifty galleons on a new set of robes gets her off his back when he stays up till three in the morning balancing equations, it's a small price to pay.

In any case, the robe shop is nice and quiet, allowing him to immerse himself in a troublesome gravitational equation in his head (the last few months have been a study in macrophysics and cosmology) when all of a sudden—

"Hello."

Startled out of his calculations, Draco turns his head. Standing on the stool next to him is a skinny lathe of a boy with a head of wild black hair and large, round glasses.

Draco doesn't say anything, which seems to make the boy nervous. Or at least more nervous than he had been initially.

"Uh," the boy says. "Hogwarts, too?"

What a stupid question. Draco wonders if perhaps he's a bit slow.

"I think that's fairly obvious," Draco answers, gesturing to the black robe for which he is presently being fitted by a spelled needle.

"Right," says the boy, looking appropriately embarrassed. "I, uh. Have you been there?"

"What?"

"To Hogwarts. Have you been there?"

_Oh,_ Draco thinks. _Not stupid, Muggle Born._

"Yes." He'd gone with Professor Snape a few times to raid the library when they couldn't find the right book.

"What's it like?" the boy asks, and his eagerness is showing.

"It's a castle in Scotland."

"But – but what is it _like?_"

Draco stares at him uncomprehendingly. What does he want, an essay? Maybe he _is_ stupid after all, in addition to being Muggle Born.

"Is it big?" the boy asks when Draco can't manage a response.

"Of course it's big. It's a castle."

The poor, possibly-still-stupid Muggle Born boy with the hair like a dead animal is staring at him like he's expecting something. Draco suddenly realizes that this is what social interaction is like with normal children his age.

It is terrifying.

Draco looks forward and tries to come up with an efficient way out of this conversation.

"So is it—?"

"Look," Draco interjects, "I get the feeling that you're not really concerned with what Hogwarts is like so much as you are rattled about the sudden dramatic shift in the frame of reference of your reality. I understand that's quite common for witches and wizards raised with Muggles."

He stares at Draco in stunned silence. His mouth is shut tightly.

"There's no call to be nervous. The school has been catering to eleven-year-olds from Muggle upbringings for hundreds of years. And going by the yellowing bruises on your neck and the state of your clothes, it's bound to be a significant step up."

The boy's mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything. After a moment, he shuts it again.

Draco doesn't like the look on his face. He can't quite place the emotion but it looks suspiciously like awe and Draco does not know how to handle that.

"You'll be fine," Draco says, turning forward. The needle hemming the sleeve of his robe is nearly done, thank Merlin, which means he's nearly ready to leave. "People have gone through this same existential crisis before. The world still makes sense; you're just seeing it from a different angle. Just keep an open mind and low expectations and you'll never be disappointed."

"What's your name?" the boy asks, and yes, that is definitely awe in his voice.

"Draco Malfoy."

Before the boy can respond, one of the shop assistants heads over to check the work the spelled needle has done on Draco's robe. She smiles at him and says, "You're good to go."

"Thank you." He accepts her help in pulling off the robe and steps off the stool.

"I'm Harry, by the way!" calls Harry as Draco strides right for the exit.

"That's nice," Draco says, immediately forgetting his name.


	3. 1 September, 1991

_Question everything._  
Euripides

* * *

"Malfoy, Draco," says Professor McGonagall, pulling Draco out of his own head for the first time that evening. Most of the day-long journey to Hogwarts had been gloriously unburdened by other people. Still, as annoying as it is, he should probably do this sorting thing.

He pushes his way through the crowd up toward Professor McGonagall and the stool by which she's standing. He sits down and she puts the Sorting Hat on his head.

He waits. For several long seconds, nothing happens.

Draco knows just enough about the sorting ceremony to know that _something_ should be happening, and he's about to say that maybe it's broken when a voice suddenly floods his head:

_You are not what I was expecting._

Draco is startled. He knows that the Sorting Hat is slightly psychic, but he hadn't considered that it might be telepathic, let alone speaking in complete sentences. Is the hat actually sapient?

_Not in the way you understand sapience, perhaps, but I am a thinking being, yes._

Fascinating.

_With most long, pureblood lines, it's variations on the same theme, but you are a different creature entirely, aren't you?_

Draco is wondering what sort of magic would be necessary to create sentience like this, and whether or not such magic would even be ethical to perform. He is reminded of _Frankenstein_, about the dangerous consequences for men who dare to play god.

_Are you listening?_

Sapience and consciousness without self-governance must be a nightmarish existence. If it were Draco, he would be plagued at all hours with soul-crushing ennui. He would rot from the inside out with idleness.

_That's really not…_

Come to think of it, Draco would also struggle with a profound crisis of identity. Express and intended purpose does not necessarily equate to personal actualization. Is the Sorting Hat happy being a Sorting Hat? Does it find fulfillment from sorting? Would it even matter if it didn't?

_I don't think this is—_

And what if it yearns for something more than its intended design? What if, like Dr. Frankenstein's accursed monster, it has the full burden of sentience, of life and love and curiosity and intelligence, but limited means of expressing it?

_Oh, for goodness's sake._

And for that matter, what kind of spell could even create sentience? Even magic obeys the laws of conservation of mass, and sentience needs more than just energy to be realized. Surely something would have to be transfigured into neurons – thread, perhaps? But even then—

_Right, that's quite enough of that._

"RAVENCLAW!"

Silence follows. Professor McGonagall plucks the Sorting Hat from Draco's head, leaving him blinking out into the Great Hall.

There is some scattered applause, though it's slow and those clapping seem sort of confused.

Draco belatedly remembers that there hasn't been a non-Slytherin Malfoy in the history of his house. He wonders if his father will be angry, decides he doesn't care, and goes back to thinking about magically-created sentience as he heads toward the Ravenclaw table.

Draco does not pay attention to the rest of the ceremony. He stares off into space and considers how energy might be manipulated to mimic sentience until Headmaster Dumbledore rises at the front of the room and says, in between other much more boring start-of-term announcements, something about students avoiding the third-floor corridor if they want to avoid a painful death.

He has never been so curious in his entire life.


	4. 6 September, 1991

_Make tea, not war._  
Monty Python

* * *

After his first potions class, as the other students make their way out, he heads up to the front of the room, books under one arm. Professor Snape looks up from his notes and – after double-checking to make sure they're alone – offers a small smile.

"Good first class," Draco says.

"You weren't paying attention," Professor Snape returns.

"Well, I assume it was good. You're a very competent teacher."

He imagines that Professor Snape would be more upset by the indirect admission he wasn't paying attention if either of them were the least bit concerned with Draco's academic performance.

"I suppose I should just take that as a compliment and leave it be."

"That would be wise. I have a free block up next."

Professor Snape raises an eyebrow.

When he doesn't take the bait, Draco says, "Tea?"

"This is depressing," Professor Snape says.

"In what way?"

"Have you not met anyone your own age yet? It's been a week. I'd have thought you'd at least make a few friendly acquaintances."

"I've managed to avoid learning a single name or face, thanks for asking. What would I want with acquaintances, anyway? Children are useless."

"I marvel that you can say these things without a trace of irony."

Professor Snape closes his folio of lesson plans and together they walk toward the back of the classroom, through the door leading into his office.

"You're hardly one to talk," Draco says. "According to castle gossip, you're the most miserly, misanthropic son of a bitch in the British Isles. If it's depressing that a first year isn't making friends, it must be horrifying that the same can be said of a tenured professor."

"Careful," he answers, tersely, as Draco sits down opposite his desk and Professor Snape goes to put the kettle over the fire.

"I'm just saying, we might as well find solidarity in our mutual disdain for people."

Professor Snape doesn't answer. Draco's gaze wanders over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall, across the mixed selection of aging magical potions tomes and modern Muggle chemistry textbooks. The whole office is a bit dreary, Draco thinks, but then, Professor Snape has always valued function over form.

"Classes going well?" Draco asks.

Professor Snape sinks into his desk chair. "The new crop of students is as disappointing as ever."

"In fairness, you do have rather impossible standards."

"Harry Potter started this year."

Draco makes a small sound of surprise. "Did he? I didn't know." Though now that he thinks about it, he would be about Draco's age.

"Looks _exactly_ like his father," Professor Snape says, and Draco can't help but raise an eyebrow at the startling amount of venom in his voice. "Acts like him, too, I'm sure. Vile little creature. It's the Marauders all over again."

Draco doesn't know what the Marauders are, but he can glean enough by context. "Be careful, Professor. To the unbiased observer, it sounds like you're judging someone by the sins of their father."

"And you're an unbiased observer, are you?"

"Well, I've never met Harry Potter or his father, so I should think I'm less biased than you. Just try not to make him too miserable is my general point."

Professor Snape sneers and Draco knows he's struck a nerve, which can only mean one thing.

"Oh, Merlin," Draco says, "what did you do to him?"

"Nothing."

"Did you go twenty-questions on him? That's what you do to me when you're in a mood."

The kettle whistles and Professor Snape goes to start the tea without answering, which is not a good sign.

"You did, didn't you?"

"He had his father's same vacant, manic stare. It was annoying."

"He's eleven years old."

"Change the subject," Professor Snape says, and even though he sounds angry, Draco knows that he's made his point and that Professor Snape will back off. Good thing, too. Draco knows that Professor Snape has quite a sociopathic streak in him and sometimes doesn't know when to stop.

They're silent for a while until eventually Professor Snape comes back over with two cups of tea (the good kind, brewed with loose leaves – Ceylon, by the smell). Draco takes a small sip. It's just as well he wants to change the subject. Really, Draco only came here for one reason.

"So," he says as Professor Snape sinks back into his chair, "what's in the third-floor corridor?"

Professor Snape nearly chokes on his tea. It's a very telling reaction.

"No," he says.

"But—"

"_No,_" he repeats. "No, Draco. Absolutely not. We are not talking about this."

"Strictly speaking, saying we aren't talking about it is still talking about it."

"Stop."

"Well, it's hardly my fault the headmaster went and made such a ridiculous announcement at the feast! 'Avoid the third-floor corridor if you don't want to die,' indeed. Why not just ward it, throw up a perception filter? It's like he _wants_ us to be curious."

"You are asking about something that is far larger than you know, Draco, and a great deal more dangerous. The headmaster's warning about death was not misplaced. Leave it alone."

"But—!"

"_Leave it alone._"

Draco throws his head back, letting out his best aggrieved sigh, just to drive home how completely unreasonable Professor Snape is being. "What _else_ am I supposed to do to keep myself occupied in this intellectual wasteland?"

"Only you could think of a school as an intellectual wasteland," Professor Snape says. Draco doesn't need to look to know that he's eyeing him, unsure of Draco's intentions. "If you want something to do, try making some friends. It will be good for you."

"Hypocrite."

"Drink your tea," he says, and Draco does


	5. 7 October, 1991

_Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will._  
James Stephens

* * *

Draco knows where his strengths are. He knows he is almost always the smartest person in the room, for example. He knows that he is capable of grasping difficult and abstract concepts without much trouble. He knows he's able to think laterally, to see the whole in the parts, to deduce abductively from details other people don't even notice. He's also pretty fast.

But he is not brave. He has never been brave.

That, surely, is why his heart is racing.

He could die. Generally speaking, he could die at any moment from any number of things, but the third-floor corridor apparently presents a higher-than-average chance of death. Unfortunately, he's more curious than he is scared.

That would make a great epitaph, Draco thinks.

He breathes once and reaches out for the doorknob.

Locked.

He casts a quick diagnostic spell. No wards, no filters. The lock on the door isn't even magical. He could open it with a spell. Hell, with a lockpick. Why is this so easy? Cowardice flares up again, drowning out curiosity.

"Draco?"

He whirls on a heel, heart suddenly in his throat. Standing at the other end of the hallway is a boy with big, round glasses and hair like a dead animal.

"Who are you?" Draco asks. "How do you know my name?"

The boy blinks at him in silence. He fidgets, looking uncomfortable.

"We met before."

"We did? Wait." Draco squints. His face _is_ familiar, he realizes, and then it hits him. "Robe shop."

He smiles, and yes, it's definitely robe shop boy. Draco recalls being told his name, but he can't remember it and is pretty sure it doesn't matter, anyway.

"You remember," Robe Shop says, smiling like it's great news.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asks.

"I could ask the same of you." Robe Shop walks forward, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his robe to fight the chill filtering through the hallway. "Headmaster Dumbledore said that this corridor is forbidden. You can't be here."

"And yet here I am," Draco says blithely. "It's a miracle."

Robe Shop laughs and it's the most startling thing Draco's heard all day. He's not used to making people laugh – not with genuine amusement, anyway. But Robe Shop is laughing, and it's because Draco said something funny, and Draco is no longer sure how to handle this situation.

"Not concerned with rules, then?" Robe Shop asks, once he's done laughing.

"On the contrary, I dedicate my life to rules," Draco replies, doing a very good job of pretending he's not hopeless with social interaction. "That's why I break them."

"That doesn't make any sense," says Robe Shop.

"It makes _perfect_ sense if you know anything at all about science." He turns back to the door and glares at it. A simple _alohomora_ would open it, but Draco's hand wrings around his wand and he can't bring himself to cast it. In his head, curiosity and cowardice duke it out for dominance.

"Do wizards have science?"

"Everyone _has_ science. Laws of nature don't just stop working because you don't understand them." He pauses, then amends: "Well, sometimes they do, but that's only on a quantum scale."

"Are you some kind of genius?" Robe Shop asks, and there's awe in his voice again. Draco is uncomfortable with the word "genius" and always has been. He's glad he's still facing the door so Robe Shop can't see as much. He decides to change the subject.

"A wizard as powerful as Albus Dumbledore should be able to hide this better."

Silence for a moment, then, "What?"

"It's just a door," Draco says. "Just an ordinary door with an ordinary lock. The spell to open it could be performed by a six-year-old. There are no wards to prevent entry or filters to obscure its existence. _Why?_ Why is something so dangerous so easily accessible? And more to the point, why would he warn an entire school off it and then leave it so exposed?"

Robe Shop doesn't answer, which is fine, because the question had mostly been rhetorical.

His fingers itch. Draco's most base instinct has always been _look_, _learn_, _figure it out_, _understand_. It pumps through his body with each heartbeat, it sparks in his nerves and ignites his senses.

At present, that instinct is warring with his other instinct to not die.

"So are you going to open it?"

Draco starts. Robe Shop is beside him now – Draco isn't sure when that happened – and looking at him with open curiosity. Draco sets his face.

"No reason not to," he says, hoping he can make himself believe it. "I don't think anyone has ever died from opening a door."

"Probably not," Robe Shop agrees.

"And if there's something dangerous behind it, I can always just close it again. It must be enough to contain it."

"Yeah."

Draco takes a breath. He's thinking of curiosity and cats when he raises his wand and says, "_Alohomora_."

_Click_, goes the door, and Draco grabs the handle before he can give it too much thought and pulls it open.

It appears to be a disused classroom, though any chairs and tables have been emptied out. The windows are boarded up and all lights extinguished.

In the corner of the room, sleeping soundly, is a massive, three-headed dog on top of a trap door.

There is a curious and addictive sensation in Draco, something that hovers between absolute terror and enthralling fascination. It makes his blood run hot and his senses razor sharp.

"Wow," says Robe Shop.

One of the dog's heads snuffles in its sleep and Draco shuts the door, locking it again with another spell.

Draco has never wanted to know anything so badly as what's under that trap door. In one corner of his mind he goes through his mental map of the castle, trying to figure out what's beneath this wing. In another corner, he runs through a list of people he might be able to interrogate for more information.

"I didn't know dogs could have three heads," Robe Shop says.

It's such an obvious statement, miles behind, and the way it contrasts to all the careful charts and maps in Draco's head pulls a startled laugh out of him.

And then Robe Shop is laughing because Draco is, and it just keeps going, and before Draco really knows what's going on, he suddenly realizes that this is how friendships must start.


	6. 28 October, 1991

_It is your reaction to adversity, not the adversity itself, that determines how your life's story will develop._  
Dieter F. Uchtdorf

* * *

Draco is intimately familiar with the physics of it – the effects of angle, velocity, rotational force – and has spent hours working it all out over countless sheets of parchment. He thinks about how complicated the math is, how abstract the rules are, how wildly different the results if any variable shifts even slightly, and he thinks about how it is all condensed into this – throwing a rubber ball at a wall.

It's just a matter of training his hand-eye coordination and all of that complexity, all those pages of calculations and memorized formulae, all boil down to something so startlingly simple, instantaneous, reactionary. Draco throws the ball; it hits the floor first, then the wall, then returns to his outstretched hand. It is chaos given form, and the elegance of it is astonishing.

Draco is in awe at the simple majesty of the universe. Or rather, he would be, if it weren't for a particular weight in the pocket of his robe.

"Mr. Malfoy."

He catches the ball and turns his head. Professor Dumbledore is coming down the hallway in bright lavender robes, his eyes glinting over his half-moon spectacles. Draco takes a deep breath and tucks the little rubber ball into his pocket.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"I was, Sir, yes."

"Not for too long, I hope."

"No, Sir. May I have a word?"

The headmaster closes the distance between them and gives Draco a once-over, his sharp gaze lingering overlong on his Ravenclaw tie. For a moment, a bare instance, Draco thinks he sees something like suspicion.

But it is gone in a heartbeat, replaced with a wizened smile. "Of course."

Draco inclines his head in thanks. Professor Dumbledore moves past him and approaches the large gargoyle outside of which Draco had been waiting.

"Licorice wand," Professor Dumbledore says to the gargoyle, and it leaps aside with twice the deftness a stone sculpture should have, opening up to a spiral staircase.

Draco follows him up and into the expansive office, glittering with a thousand instruments both Muggle and magical. In another situation, Draco would be overcome by curiosity and asking a thousand questions.

But not now. Not with the weight in his pocket. Not with the weight in his mind.

"Whatever it is," Professor Dumbledore says, gliding to his desk and sinking into the high-back leather chair, "it must be quite serious if you're coming directly to me and not through Professor Flitwick."

"I don't think it would have done to go though my head of house, Sir," Draco says.

He reaches into his pocket and sets the Philosopher's Stone down on the edge of the headmaster's desk. It glints low and red in the light.

Professor Dumbledore does not react immediately. His blue eyes are steady, trained on it with a great but detached intensity.

"My, my, my," he says after a moment's pause.

"You are one of the most powerful wizards alive today," Draco says. "If you had truly wanted to make this safe, you could have crafted layers of impenetrable wards, put it under the Fidelius Charm, locked it in a safe. Instead, you put it behind a series of booby traps that an eleven-year-old can successfully surmount."

"In fairness, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Dumbledore returns, peering over his spectacles and up at Draco, "I think it's clear that you are hardly an average eleven-year-old."

"When you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. It's Occam's razor, Professor. You made it recoverable because you _wanted_ it to be recoverable. The only thing I can't fathom is _why_. Why would you bring it up at the feast? Why would you leave the first line of defense so flimsy? Why would you try so hard to make someone go after it?"

"Remarkable," says Professor Dumbledore. "Truly remarkable. I admit, Mr. Malfoy, when I saw you sorted into Ravenclaw, I was not sure what to think, but now I understand. I knew your father. You are not what I expected his son to be."

"I notice that you have not answered my question, Sir."

Dumbledore smirks. "It would have been out of character if you hadn't noticed."

Draco's nostrils flare and he sets his face. "Those booby traps were _dangerous,_" he says. "If anyone stupider than me went down there, they could have died."

Dumbledore chuckles. "I'd ask why you went down there, but that questions answers itself, doesn't it? The Sorting Hat chose well."

Draco can hardly believe what he's hearing. Is Dumbledore out of his mind? Draco is accusing him of putting students' lives in danger and he's _laughing_ about it. He doesn't even have the decency to _deny_ it.

"If you must know, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Dumbledore says, mildly, "you are quite correct in your assessment. I did indeed intend for someone to go down there. It was meant to be a test of character and mettle. I just hadn't anticipated that it would be testing _you_."

"A _test of character and mettle?_" Draco answers, anger rising in his chest and voice. "Sir, this is beyond reproach! What could possibly—?"

All at once, several dots connect, and Draco is almost knocked over from the force of the sudden, devastating clarity.

Whereas: there is only one person in the school remarkable enough to call this sort of attention from the headmaster, and that person is Harry Potter.

Whereas: such a dangerous and elaborate "test of character and mettle" could not be undertaken lightly or without serious reasons of profound import.

Whereas: the shortest distance between Harry Potter and anything of profound import is the Dark Lord.

Therefore: Lord Voldemort, in some capacity, is still a threat.

Further: Lord Voldemort is not dead.

Draco hates these moments, when his conscious mind races ahead of the rest of him, leaving his body to catch up, dizzy, breathless, trembling. It's as though the floor has given way underneath his feet and he can't figure out why because he's too busy trying to find something to hold onto.

"Are you quite all right, Mr. Malfoy?"

He takes a breath, wills himself to calm down, to not think about the Dark Mark on his father's arm, about what this information may mean for his family, for Professor Snape, for him. There's time. There _must_ be time, if the Dark Lord's greatest enemy can put together something like this.

"Does he know?" Draco asks in a soft, measured voice.

"Does who know what?"

"Does _Harry Potter_ know that the psychopath who killed his parents is _still alive_."

"_Remarkable,_" Professor Dumbledore says again. "You worked that out just now? Yours is truly a mind for the ages, Mr. Malfoy."

"He has a right to know," Draco says, more loudly. "Am I the only person in this school who realizes that we are talking about a _child?_ Conqueror of the Dark Lord or not, he is _eleven years old!_ I feel like I'm the only person who cares about this and I've never even met him!"

Professor Dumbledore sobers a fraction and sits back in his chair. "There are parts of this story of which you are not aware, Mr. Malfoy," he says.

"You were ready to throw him into a dangerous pit that could have gotten him killed. Tell me what kind of context could _possibly_ make that permissible."

He does not answer. He's leaning back in his chair and staring at Draco in contemplative silence.

"He's just a child," Draco says, wishing that meant more to people.

"A war is coming, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Dumbledore says, voice wan. "Not tomorrow, not this year, but it is coming. A war is no place for a child."

"Then don't try to make him fight in it."

Draco can't take this a moment longer. He turns on a heel and stalks across the office. "Take that stone and put it where it belongs, behind some very powerful wards in a room no one knows exists. And leave poor Harry Potter _alone_."

"Mr. Malfoy, before you go?"

He stops. His hand hovers over the brass handle of the door that leads to the spiral staircase. He is half tempted to make a very rude gesture at the headmaster that will almost certainly get him in trouble, but he manages to resist.

"100 points to Ravenclaw."

Astonished, Draco looks back over his shoulder. Professor Dumbledore does not appear to be kidding.

"In dark times, there often isn't room for integrity. I am pleased to see that you are the type who will fight for it regardless."

"_Someone_ has to," Draco says, bitterly, before he can stop himself.

He expects him to be angry, but instead the look on Professor Dumbledore's face is resigned, almost sad.

"Yes," the headmaster agrees. "Someone has to."


	7. 14 November, 1991

_Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo._  
H. G. Wells

* * *

"Young Mr. Malfoy."

Draco turns and smiles. "Professor! You got my owl."

Professor Snape comes to a stop beside Draco, who's leaning against the wall just outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and picking at a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. Draco likes the expression on his face. It's somewhere between frustrated, upset, and giddy, with just a dash of Schadenfreude.

"For the record," Professor Snape says, "as much as I approve of the end result, I must thoroughly admonish you for inserting yourself into this matter at all and therefore deduct five points from Ravenclaw."

"You're such a killjoy," Draco says. "But at least you're a killjoy who's on time. They just went into his office. Should be out any minute now. Bertie Bott's?"

Professor Snape plucks a bronze-colored bean and pops it into his mouth. He makes a face.

"Rust?"

"Beef bouillon, at a guess. Your letter was vague – how, exactly, did you manage this?"

"A mind like Sherlock Holmes and a willingness to break into his office. Mostly the second thing. Though really, after that ridiculously transparent stunt with the mountain troll, he only had himself to blame."

"I knew from the start there was something suspicious about him," Professor Snape says sourly.

"I know. You didn't go to great pains to hide your dislike," Draco answers, and right at that moment, the classroom door swings open.

Two aurors robed in scarlet are dragging out a hissing, spitting, thrashing, cursing, but thankfully magically bound Professor Quirrell by either arm.

Draco and Professor Snape wave at him cheerfully as he's pulled away, screaming obscenities about the Dark Lord's vengeance.

"Get him to take off his turban!" Draco shouts after them. "If he says it's religious, he's lying!"

When they pass out of view, Professor Snape straightens and fixes Draco with a harsh stare. "Don't do this again."

"Don't do what? Save the school?"

"Put yourself in danger."

"It's a chaotic universe, Professor," Draco says. "We're all in danger. I'll see you for tea tomorrow?"

"Draco Malfoy, it will be a miracle if you ever make it to adulthood."

"I'll take that as a yes," he says as he heads away, fishing out a pale sea-foam-colored bean and finding that it's mint-flavored. He's scarcely made it down the adjoining hallway when he hears a sharp, squeaky voice from behind him:

"Oy! Malfoy!"

Draco stops and turns. An angry ginger is storming towards him. Not a sight he's used to seeing.

"Look, I'll only say this once, all right? Back off."

Draco frowns. He looks around, just to double check that his father isn't also in the hallway and he's not the Malfoy the ginger's referring to, because he can't imagine how that sentence could have any possible meaning to him.

But no, the hallway is otherwise empty, apart from the pack of Gryffindors from whom the angry ginger had broken off, who are now heading in the opposite direction. He is definitely talking to Draco.

"All right, three part follow-up question," Draco says. "One, who are you? Two, what are you talking about? Three, why are you angry?"

The angry ginger gets even angrier. "You know what I'm talking about."

"I promise I have absolutely no idea."

"_Harry,_" he says. "Back off of _Harry_. You're a bad influence on him."

"Who in God's name is Harry?"

The response seems to startle the angry ginger, and for a moment he's more surprised than he is angry. But only for a moment.

"Harry _Potter_," he says, which, if anything, only amplifies Draco's confusion.

"What about him?"

"Back off!"

"I've never even met him!"

"I saw you talking to him yesterday in the Great Hall!"

Draco squints, then recalls: "Wait, you're talking about Robe Shop? Robe Shop is Harry Potter?"

The angry ginger is lost for words, which is a nice change of pace.

Draco hadn't ever stopped calling him Robe Shop. Maybe he'd told Draco his name (probably in the robe shop) and Draco forgot it. For the past few weeks, he'd been following Draco around, catching him in hallways between classes, in the Great Hall, in the library. It's cute, nice even, but a little disorienting. Draco isn't used to having people like him and want to be around him. At least not people his age.

"Probably should have asked his name," Draco ruminates. "It's been like a month." He really is bad at this.

"Look," the angry ginger sputters, "just back off him. Every time he talks to you, he comes back chattering about whatever bollocks you've said and how smart you are and I _know_ about your family."

Draco raises both eyebrows. "Oh, you do, do you."

"I know your father's a Death Eater," the angry ginger says. "I know he fought for the Dark Lord. And I know he bloody well bought his way out of going to Azkaban."

"Yes," Draco answers. He's not sure if that observation is meant to offend or intimidate him. It really doesn't do either. It's not like it's some big secret.

"And I've told him that you're bad news and he's not listening, so I'm telling you instead: back off."

Draco thinks about it for a moment, then says, "No." Then he keeps walking.

There's a pause, then a scuffle – the angry ginger is scrambling to keep up with him. "What do you mean 'no?'"

"I wasn't aware there were multiple meanings."

"Look, I'm _telling you_—"

"And I'm saying no," Draco interjects. "He seems nice and I'm not going to stop talking to him just because you tell me to, Weasley."

A beat of silence. Draco can almost hear the jaw fall. "How'd—?"

"Red hair, freckles, hand-me-down clothes, the better question is how anyone on the planet _doesn't_ know the moment they look at you. Look, Weasley." He stops in the hallway again, turns to face him, meets him with an even stare. "I don't care what you know about my family. None of it is applicable to _me_. And if you think you have any sort of right to tell me who I can and can't be friends with, you're out of your mind."

Weasley the angry ginger glares and turns slightly scarlet.

And damn, Draco belatedly realizes, he just referred to Harry as his _friend_.

He has a _friend_ now.

_That's_ new.

"Harry killed the Dark Lord," Ron hisses. "He won't fall for the tricks of one of his henchmen."

"It is the height of irony to prejudge someone of prejudice," Draco remarks.

He turns on a heel and vanishes before Weasley can come up with a response.


	8. 25 December, 1991

_No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted._  
Aesop

* * *

Draco collapses in the chair across from the Harry formerly known as Robe Shop and seems to catch him off-guard.

"Happy Christmas," Draco says, smiling.

"Draco?" Harry returns. "What are you doing here?"

"Literally or philosophically?"

Harry laughs. "Let's start with literally. I thought you went home."

"Home is boring," Draco says dismissively, which is mostly true. The other half of the answer that he does not feel like discussing is the fact that if he goes home for Christmas he'll have to deal with _endless_ disparaging remarks about how he _dared_ let himself be sorted into Ravenclaw. "Besides, I needed to be around to give you your present."

Draco pulls it out from his robe pocket. It's a small box, neatly wrapped in glossy red paper with a shiny silver ribbon, about the size and dimensions of a wallet. Harry stares at it as though it is solid gold and does not take it. In fact, he seems almost paralyzed by the sight of it.

Draco gives him a few seconds' grace before he says, "You going to take it or what?"

"I…"

He is struck by the expression on Harry's face. It hovers somewhere between abject astonishment, unequalled gratitude, and wounded confusion.

"One would think you'd never received a Christmas present before in your life," Draco says, as neutrally as he can manage.

Harry looks up and meets Draco's eyes.

Draco's worked it out, of course. It would have taken more effort to remain ignorant to the signs of abuse – the unhealthy weight, the spotty confidence, the old bruises – to his mind, they are giant and obvious. It infuriates him, of course, especially because he knows that with all the fanfare surrounding his early childhood, someone, somewhere, had to _know_ about it – know about it and done _nothing_.

Draco has plans to deal with it. It will make a nice birthday present, he thinks.

"Thank you," Harry says reverently.

"You're supposed to thank me after you open it."

"Oh."

Hesitantly, Harry reaches out and takes it in both hands, holding as though it was made of glass. He pulls at the end of the ribbon and takes off the top.

"Oh, _wow,_" he whispers.

"You seemed so interested when I showed you my magical map of the Virgo Supercluster, so I thought you might like an astronomical watch."

It's a small, handsome silver fob watch on a chain, and Harry rolls it between his hands like it's the most incredible thing he's ever seen.

"It shows local time, time of year, relative position of the other planets, and position around the Milky Way. But since it takes over 200 million years to orbit the center of the galaxy, I wouldn't expect that last hand to move all that much."

"It's beautiful," Harry says.

Draco opens his mouth to comment on how it's far more useful than it is elegant, but then decides against it. He certainly can't blame Harry for finding beauty in the awesome void that is the universe. Draco recalls being five years old and staring through a telescope for the first time, focused on Venus, and trying to wrap his head around the fact that this pale yellow dot was a planet roughly the size of the earth.

Even these days, knowing all he does, he still finds the sheer scope of the universe one of the most difficult concepts he's ever had to grasp. Whenever Draco gets too self-assured, he opens up that magical map of the Virgo Supercluster and reminds himself that the observable universe likely only makes up only a fraction of all that exists.

Draco smiles. "I'm glad you like it."

Harry is still studying the watch face, so Draco grabs his plate and gives himself a heaping helping of scrambled eggs. Most of the students have, of course, gone home, and there's not as much food laid out as their usually is. Still, Christmas breakfast looks sumptuous enough.

"Heard you got into a bit of a row with Weasley before the break," Draco says.

At last, Harry looks up. He's frowning, and he shuts the watch. "Yeah," he admits reluctantly. "He was sort of acting like a pillock."

"He sort of _is_ a pillock," Draco says. He has still not forgiven the little bastard for demanding he stop talking to Harry.

"He just can't get over the fact that we're friends," Harry sighs. "He just kept saying 'he's a Death Eater, he's a Death Eater!' And no matter how many times I tell him you don't buy into it, he keeps going on about it."

Draco takes a bite of egg. "You never asked me if I 'buy into it,'" he says as he chews.

Harry gives him a strange look. "You don't, do you?"

"Of course I don't," he answers. "Purist dogma is fear mongering, prejudicial rubbish. I'm just saying that you never asked. You just assumed."

He doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and Draco can't help but smile. This, he realizes – _this_ is why people have friends. Friends are people who assume the best in you without a second thought, who will defend your honor for no other reason than your honor matters to them.

"Thank you," Draco says before Harry can figure out the obscure meaning behind his words.

"Thank _me?_ You just gave me what I'm sure is an absurdly expensive universe clock and you're thanking _me?_"

"It's an astronomical watch, not a universe clock, and it wasn't _that_ expensive."

"Well, your family's rich, isn't it? You probably wouldn't know if it was."

"That's me, blinded by the light of my own privilege." He takes a sip of orange juice.

Harry grins, green eyes bright. "Thanks, Draco. It's the best gift I've ever gotten."

"High praise, considering you were given an invisibility cloak not three days ago," Draco says. He still can't believe that it even exists.

"That was my dad's, so I figure it's not a gift so much as an heirloom."

"Excellent, so my victory is unblemished on a technicality."

Harry laughs. "Happy Christmas, Draco."

This friend thing is nice after all, Draco decides. "Happy Christmas, and happy New Year. Let's hope the rest of the semester is blessedly free of Dark Lord sympathizers posing as professors."

"Let's."

The subject drifts. They talk about classes and homework and macrophysics and dark matter, and when Harry proposes that they go out and have a snowball fight, Draco calls him ridiculous and juvenile but doesn't say no.


	9. 25 June, 1992

_The story of love  
Is hello and goodbye  
Until we meet again_  
Jimi Hendrix

* * *

"You'll write, won't you?"

Draco looks up from his bag, where he's packing up the last of the books he'd been reading. Underneath their feat, the Hogwarts Express groans and rattles as it makes its arduous deceleration into the station.

"Of course I will," Draco answers. "Why wouldn't I?"

Harry frowns and shakes his head. "I'm half-afraid that this whole year has been just a dream," he answers. "That the minute I get off this train it will all be over."

"Not all good things are too good to be true. Allow yourself at least a little optimism."

It takes a moment before Harry smiles, but Draco's pleased to see that the smile is genuine. He's gotten quite good at making Harry smile, he's discovered, and has found that he likes doing it.

"I'll miss you, Draco," he says, and before Draco can answer, Harry's closing the gap between them and pulling him into a hug. Harry smells like cedar and soap.

Draco is not and has never been a person who likes physical contact – due in large part, he suspects, to the fact that he simply didn't get a lot of it growing up. His father had always been standoffish, especially after the early development of Draco's mind, and his mother, doting as she is, prefers to show her love through gifts and cooing. Professor Snape is something of a deviation, with his occasional affectionate touches to the head or shoulder, or even hugs, but they are quite rare. And, as in all things, Professor Snape has always been the exception to Draco's rule. Mostly and by most people, Draco does not like being touched.

But this is actually quite nice, Draco realizes with some surprise, and before he lets himself think about it too much he returns the hug. There's a great scraping of metal followed by a loud hiss, and the train grinds to a halt.

"You'll see me sooner than you think," Draco tells him.

Harry pulls back with the question in his eyes, but Draco smiles and heads out of the compartment before he can ask it. No sense in ruining a good surprise.

Students are flooding into the narrow corridor and out of the train, a sea of contrast and color now that all the uniforms have been shed for street clothes. When they empty out onto the platform, it's to the dull thrum of indistinct conversation punctuated by occasional happy squeals of reunion.

It is not hard to pick out his father in the crowd – it never is. Lucius Malfoy is the tallest, blondest, best-dressed person in every room he walks into. Draco spots him at once and carves a path through the ever-thickening crowd towards him.

"Draco," he says over the rumbling chorus of voices. He's looking down his long, upturned nose at him, fingernails drumming on the silver-plated head of his cane.

"Father," Draco returns.

"A good year, I trust?"

Draco shrugs. "Good enough." He'd received the top marks in his class, but that really wasn't something worth mentioning.

"Your mother and I missed you at Christmas."

"Sorry," he says. "Terrible head cold."

"And Easter."

"It was a really long head cold."

"Draco," he says sternly.

"Fine, you caught me," Draco sighs. "I actually made a friend who didn't have a family to go home to for the holidays, so I thought it better to stay with him. I hope we can move past the disgust you must feel for me now, making friends and being nice."

Lucius's mouth twitches downward into a sneer.

"A friend," he repeats. "A fellow Ravenclaw?"

"Wow," Draco says, "that couldn't have been more than twenty seconds. I'd thought you wouldn't bring it up my house for at least three minutes."

His father sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Can we go home now?" Draco asks.

"Yes," he grumbles, sticking out his arm for a side-along.

Draco takes it, and just before they vanish, he looks toward the entrance of the platform, where he sees Harry and his trunk and his owl cage vanishing through the wall, alone.

He thinks about what Harry is going back to and comforts himself with the knowledge that he _will_ see Harry sooner than he thinks.

Then, with a loud crack and the smell of ozone, they Disapparate.


	10. 12 July, 1992

_The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality._  
John F. Kennedy

* * *

When Draco makes it back inside, he's soaked through with warm summer rain and grinning ear to ear. Dobby the house-elf attends him at the door, taking his telescope and book full of star charts.

"Did Master Draco have a productive evening?" he asks, casting a quick spell that dries Draco with a soft _snap_ sound and a thrum of magic.

"Extremely productive, thank you, Dobby," he answers. Drying spells always make his hair wild, and he uses both hands to smooth it back over his head. "The new spelled lenses Professor Snape gave me for my birthday worked perfectly. You should see the Horsehead Nebula in infrared! Breathtaking."

"Dobby is glad, Master Draco," he says with that big, lopsided smile of his. But it's gone sooner than it normally is, and he stares down at his knobbly feet.

When Draco began his study of Holmesian abductive reasoning, he practiced on Dobby specifically because he was such a fantastically easy target. The house-elf is physically incapable of hiding his emotions. As such, as Draco studies him, he can tell with no difficulty that—

"Something's wrong," Draco says.

For several long seconds, Dobby doesn't answer. His spindly hands start to tremble.

"Something's _very_ wrong," Draco continues, frowning.

The trembling gets worse until, quite abruptly, Dobby drops both the telescope and book of star charts, darts for the nearby china cabinet, and starts violently beating his head into it.

"Oh, for – Dobby! Dobby, _stop_, I order you to stop!"

Dobby stops, but he got several good whacks in and is swaying in his spot.

Draco hates this culture of fear his father's instilled in the house-elves. He's always entertained the idea that, once he came into his inheritance, he would work to undo all the psychological damage his father inflicts on them.

"You forgot my standing rule, Dobby," Draco says. "No punishments in my presence."

"Dobby is sorry," he returns, voice quavering from the recent violence.

Draco picks up the book and telescope and crouches down to Dobby's level. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong? It's obvious you want to. Maybe I can help."

Dobby stares up at Draco with his wide, green eyes, his lower lip trembling. He wrings his hands together.

"You can tell me anything, Dobby," Draco says. "You know I'm not like my father."

"Dobby knows." He keeps wringing his hands, though the movements get less urgent. "Dobby has—" (he falters a moment) "—heard some things."

"What sort of things?"

"Things from Master Lucius's study," Dobby answers, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Dreadful things, said by dreadful voices. The voices speak of serpents and chambers and death and – and Harry Potter."

Draco puts it together immediately, though he wishes he wouldn't. His throat suddenly feels very dry and there is a coldness in his stomach that starts to seep through his veins.

"Harry Potter is the one who saved us all," Dobby whispers, grabbing Draco's wrists urgently. "If he goes to Hogwarts, he will be in danger!"

Draco doesn't answer. He feels sick, physically sick, like he might vomit. But he has to be sure. He has to be _absolutely sure_.

"Dobby," Draco says, "how many voices did you hear?"

"Dobby heard two, Master Draco."

"My father's and…?"

Dobby's entire body shudders at the memory, and hope extinguishes.

Draco had never asked, of course, and his father had never volunteered information, but the story was always there, in the back of his mind, carved into the history of House Malfoy.

He had thought – after the first campaign – but now? _Still?_ After _everything?_

Draco finds that he can no longer support his own weight and he collapses against the wall of the hallway, dropping his telescope and book next to him. For the first time in so many years, the careful structure in his mind has turned to bedlam. He's caught between a thousand thoughts pulling him in a thousand directions. What does this mean for the Wizarding World? For his family? For him? What does he do now? And how in God's name is he supposed to protect Harry?

"The voices say that a chamber must be opened and its ancient power released, a power that will purge the school of the unworthy," Dobby whispers. He looks over one shoulder, then the other, to confirm that there's no one else in the hallway. "Dobby must warn Harry Potter of the danger, Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts—"

"No," Draco says, shutting his eyes. "No, Dobby, don't. I'll take care of this."

He can feel the suspicion in Dobby's gaze prickling his skin like nettle. "What does Master Draco intend to do?"

"Oh, you know," he answers, with an easiness that belies his thundering heartbeat, "I'll do something extremely convoluted and brilliant that is the perfect combination of deft, unexpected, and effective."

Now if only he could come up with something. If only his thoughts weren't so dreadfully scattered. If only he could _think_. Why can't he just _think?_

"Master Draco must protect Harry Potter," Dobby tells him urgently.

"I know, Dobby. I know that."

"Harry Potter saved us all, even the house-elves!"

Draco laughs, but there's no humor or energy in it.

He does not know what to do, but he knows that he cannot do _nothing_. There is moral obligation that Draco cannot ignore. He cannot call himself above his father's indiscretions and then sit idly by while they conspire anew. There are machinations that need stymieing. His best and only friend needs protecting. Hogwarts needs warning.

Draco's hands tremble on his knees. He flexes his fingers and breathes deeply. He is terrified, but there is no time for terror.

He needs more information. He needs an escape plan. He needs supplies.

He is no longer safe in his own home.


	11. 3 August, 1992

_You can't be spontaneous within reason._  
Alan Watts

* * *

When the door opens, Draco puts on his biggest, maddest, most manic smile.

"Hello, ma'am," he says to the horse-faced woman at the door of 4 Privet Drive, "do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

She's drying her hands on a small terrycloth towel and frowning. "Goodness," she says, "don't they just get younger every year."

"We're just eager to spread the Good News!" Draco answers, and his smile is so wide it's sort of making his face hurt. "Ma'am, have you given any thought to your immortal soul—?"

His fingers slip and he drops his pile of pamphlets all over the welcome mat in a large, haphazard pile.

"—oh!" he says. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

She sneers, but crouches down to help him gather them back up. As soon as she's low enough, he produces the small aerosol can from his pocket and blasts her in the face with a two-second spray. Instantaneously, she collapses face-first on the threshold, unconscious.

Draco slips it back into his pocket. "Oh, no!" he says, raising his voice in alarm. "Is anyone there? Hello? Please help, she just lost consciousness!"

Soon, a man is poking his head through a door at the end of the hallway – leading to the kitchen, no doubt. He has a large, red face and a bushy moustache.

"Sir, your wife—!" Draco begins, and the man with the moustache hurries down the hallway.

"Petunia? Petunia!"

He kneels down at her side and seizes her by both shoulders. Draco produces the aerosol can again, and soon he's collapsing unconscious on top of her.

Draco whistles a jaunty tune as he steps over their bodies and into the foyer.

"Harry!" he calls. "You in?"

It's a rather squashed, cramped-looking place in Draco's opinion, though he did grow up in a manor-house, so perhaps it's not his place to judge. Still, though the size may be forgivable, there's no excusing the gaudy, pseudo-Victorian decor. The place looks like an overpriced antique shop, though not quite as classy.

When he hears footsteps from upstairs, Draco turns, and he's just in time to see Harry appear at the landing at the top of the steps, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Draco?"

"Happy birthday!" Draco says, spreading his arms as if to say _tah-dah!_

"It's – my birthday was three days ago."

"Yeah, I know, sorry," he says. "There was a last-minute change of plans, things had to be rearranged, it was a big mess. I'll tell you all about it on the way."

"On the way?" Harry hurries down the steps. "On the way to _oh, my God, what did you do?_"

He's staring past Draco, at the two bodies unconscious on the floor.

"Nothing! All right, not nothing. They're fine, though. Just unconscious."

"_Unconscious?_"

"They're fine!" Draco says again. "It's just a simple sleeping draught. Aerosolized." He pulls the can out of his pocket again, to show him. "This is your birthday present; stop panicking."

"Draco, you can't just knock out my aunt and uncle!"

"Sure I can. I did, in fact. It's not like I don't have the moral high ground in this situation, considering what they've put you through. Some would argue that twelve years of abuse would call for something far worse than unconsciousness."

Harry stares at him, mouth open and moving, but silent, rather like a fish. It's not a good look on him. Draco closes the distance between them and puts his hands on Harry's shoulders.

"Look," he says, "you don't need to explain anything to me. You're in a bad situation – one you never should have been put in at all. They shouldn't be hurting you."

"They don't…" Harry began, but he trailed off, looked to the side. "I mean, they don't _always_…"

"You don't need to explain anything to me," Draco repeats. "Look, just come with me to your birthday present. I'm taking you to wizarding Paris. It'll be _fantastic_. We'll go the Louvre and the magical catacombs and Versailles and we'll stuff ourselves with French food and take a ferry ride down the Seine. Sound good?"

Harry's mouth is doing the fish thing again. For several seconds he can't seem to manage any words. Eventually, however, he says, "I… I don't speak French."

"_Je le parle couramment!_" Draco says. "I'll translate for you."

"You're really serious," Harry breathes, speaking like he can't quite believe it. "You're just going to whisk me off to Paris, just like that?"

"Just like that. And you don't ever have to come back."

"I don't." It's not quite a question, but nor is it a statement. If Draco had to call it something he'd say that it was a hesitance.

"Harry, if I thought it would do anything, I'd just call the Department of Child Welfare. Unfortunately, they – along with Headmaster Dumbledore – are the ones who put you here in the first place." Finding _that_ out had been quite an unpleasant shock, and he'd nearly blown his cover with various colorful swear words in the records room in the Ministry.

The look of heartbreak and betrayal on Harry's face is plain. "Professor Dumbledore put me here?"

Draco frowns. "Yes," he says, slowly. "Search me as to why."

Harry swallows and stares at his feet.

"My original plan was to take you back to the Manor after Paris," Draco continues after a moment. "I had thought that my parents wouldn't have minded, but then—"

Well, then he'd discovered that his father was still working for the Dark Lord. Then his plan had gone right out the window.

Draco still wonders if he'd been stupid for giving them the benefit of the doubt, for feeling so betrayed upon realizing that his father was still taking orders from a madman, twelve years after his alleged death. He feels like he should have known somehow. He'd always seen through peoples' intentions before, after all.

And Merlin, he's never been so scared.

"Then what?" Harry asks with a frown, interrupting Draco's thoughts.

He purses his lips a moment. "I'll explain later," he says, and he will, because there's no way he can't. "Today, we're celebrating your birthday. So what do you say? The eleven o'clock to Paris leaves from Platform 6½ in an hour."

Harry releases a breath. He's staring at Draco with a strange expression – mouth slightly open, eyes wide and still, fixed on Draco, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides – before slowly, slowly, he breaks into a smile.

"This is mad," Harry says.

"What, two twelve-year-olds buggering off to Paris on their lonesome?"

Harry laughs. "You can't tell me you honestly think this isn't mad."

Draco smirks, shrugs. "All right, slightly mad. Still, life is boring without a little madness."

Harry's smile gets even wider.

"Pack your bags, birthday boy," Draco says, and Harry dashes back up the steps.


	12. 7 August, 1992

_Unconditional love is an illogical notion, but such a great and powerful one._  
A.J. Jacobs

* * *

Professor Snape pulls open the door, and the only thing Draco can think to say is, "Hello, Sir, do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

His nostrils flare as he stares down at Draco and he narrows his eyes like he doesn't quit get the joke. "Draco," he says warily. "What an unexpected – why is Harry Potter here?"

"Hi, Professor," Harry offers with a small wave.

"The answer will take some saying," Draco returns. "May we come in?"

The suspicion on his face is plain, but he steps aside and together they make their way into the foyer and away from the sweltering summer night.

Spinner's End is a dismal little street and number 23 is a dismal little house to match it. It is small and cramped and claustrophobic, with walls dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It is lit, warmed, furnished, and decorated insufficiently.

Draco loves it and always has.

"As I recall, you mentioned something about spending the first week of August in Paris," Professor Snape says, shutting the door.

"We just got back," Draco answers.

"It was _brilliant_," Harry adds brightly.

Professor Snape frowns and puts it together without much difficulty. "You went alone."

"It was a birthday present."

"You went to Paris for several days _alone_."

"Relax," Draco says. "I know Paris better than I know London. We stayed at Aunt Fiona's summer home in Calais, back every day before dark. We were perfectly safe."

Professor Snape rubs the bridge of his nose. Draco is willing to bet that he's getting one of his tension headaches that he only gets when Draco does something ridiculous.

"Did you at least warn your parents?" he asks.

"That would have been difficult, since I wiped their memories of me."

"You—" Professor Snape shuts his mouth tightly. He tries to start the sentence over, but all he manages is, "What."

"I promise there was a very good reason," Draco assures him.

"You _wiped their memories of you?_"

"Shall we have some tea?"

Professor Snape is wearing a look of intense pain and exasperation, and Draco takes a moment to marvel at the fact that, after twelve years of his occasionally dangerous, usually ridiculous, always outrageous misadventures, Professor Snape has never throttled him.

"No," he says. "No, we will not have some tea. You're going to explain to me why you magically tampered with your parents' memories before I take you back to Wiltshire and undo the spells myself."

He can feel Harry looking across at him with a frown. Draco wets his lips.

"He's taking orders from him again."

His reaction is not immediate. It takes him a few seconds to put together the meaning in his words, and a few seconds further to realize their gravity.

Tense silence screams in the quiet room.

"And you thought… the best thing to do would be to wipe your parents' memories of their own child."

Draco lifts his eyes. There's anger in them now, in addition to the nervousness.

"Oh," he says acidly, "I'm sorry. What is the appropriate response to discovering that your own father is taking orders from an allegedly dead mass-murdering psychopath? Do I contact the Department of Child Welfare or do I just go straight to the Minister of Magic?"

"Draco—"

"Is there a _standard procedure?_ Some kind of _rigmarole?_ Oh, it's just another twelve-year-old finding out his father is working for a dangerous war criminal, break out form 12-B?"

Professor Snape sets his face. "Draco, that's not—"

"What was I _supposed_ to do?" Draco demands, and his voice is shaking, because despite his best efforts, he's been sitting on all this _fear_ for almost a month now. "I couldn't stay! I did what I thought I had to in order to protect myself!"

"Maybe we _should_ have some tea," Harry interjects.

Draco drags in an unsteady breath and tries to calm himself down. Nervous tension is making his limbs tremble.

Professor Snape sighs. "Maybe we should," he agrees.

They cross into the tiny kitchen, where among piles of stacked jars full of potion ingredients and delicate instruments, there are some signs of food preparation. Professor Snape fills a kettle with a quick tap of his wand and sets it onto a stove. Draco sits down at the small table and bends forward over it, his hands raking through his hair. Harry takes the chair next to him and, with a worried frown, puts a hand on Draco's back.

As there are only two chairs at his kitchen table, Professor Snape leans against the counter and folds his arms over his chest.

"What was it that you heard?" he asks, gently.

"I only caught a few snippets of conversation," Draco answers. "He was in his private study, the one he warded to keep me out of." When those wards had first gone up, Draco had taken it as a personal challenge and tried to break through them – alas, though his father was no genius, he was a singularly competent wizard, and the wards never budged. "So far as I can tell, he doesn't – the Dark Lord wasn't physically _in_ there with him."

"After Mr. Potter was good enough to kill him twelve years ago," Professor Snape interjected, dark eyes swivelling momentarily to Harry, "he no longer had a physical body. He still doesn't, as far as we know."

Harry frowns. "Then how was he talking to Draco's dad? Or doing anything at all, for that matter?"

Professor Snape sighs. "We're not sure."

"By 'we,' I assume you mean yourself and Dumbledore," Draco says, and Professor Snape nods. "You should know, then, that he has plans involving Hogwarts."

He frowns, shifts his weight. "What sort of plans?"

"The terminology was vague," he replies. "It was something about purging the unworthy, planting the seeds of his second coming. Trust me, if I knew anything concrete, I'd tell you."

Professor Snape is silent a moment. On the stove, there's the soft rattle of the kettle as the water inside starts to simmer.

"And then you ran away."

Draco swallows and shuts his eyes. "I knew I couldn't just pack a bag and leave a note. Father would have let slip the dogs of war to find me. I had to scrub my presence out. I cleaned out my room, altered their memories, left standing orders with the house-elves. I socked away a few hundred galleons and packed my things in my shrinking trunk and went to get Harry."

"And why _did_ you abscond to Paris first, hm?" Professor Snape asks. "You should have come _straight_ to me."

"It was a birthday present," Draco said, not for the first time since arriving. His voice was strangely wistful, his eyes unfocused. "Also, his aunt and uncle were abusing him, so there was some ethical obligation."

"They – _what?_"

"Yes, that was my reaction."

Harry stares into his lap and fidgets.

"Albus was the one who—"

"Yes," Draco interrupts, "and that's why I couldn't just call in the Ministry. The flaws inherent in the system, I suppose."

Professor Snape rubs the bridge of his nose again and tries to gather his thoughts. "And now there are two runaway twelve-year-olds in my house."

"I was thinking we could take up something like a permanent residence in Aunt Fiona's summer home in Calais," Draco offers with some measure of hesitance. "She never goes there, anyway, and it's far enough away—"

"Absolutely not," Professor Snape interjects. "Draco Malfoy, you may be a genius, but you are also twelve-years-old and under severe emotional distress. You should not and must not be alone in this."

There's a pause. The kettle starts to whistle. Professor Snape goes to take it off the burner and fill the teapot waiting on the counter. Draco stares after him, heart in his throat.

"Merlin knows that this memory wiping plan of yours is hardly a permanent solution anyway," he says, adding a metal tea infuser to the pot. "Sooner or later they'll talk to someone who will ask about you—"

"I know," Draco says, "it's not perfect, but it was the best solution, and it buys me _time_—"

"—and in the interim, you will both stay here."

Draco and Harry stare at him in stunned silence. Professor Snape crosses to the table and sets the teapot down. With a flick of his wand, three cups and saucers fly from the cabinet and place themselves on the table.

While waiting for it to finish steeping, he rights himself and looks down at them. He tries to hide his look of fondness, but he doesn't do it well enough to fool Draco.

"I am not sure how long it can last," he admits with some reluctance. "There may come a time when neither of you will be safe with me. It may be sooner than we would like."

Draco takes in a slow breath. He thinks he has an idea of what Professor Snape is implying. The only reason it would be unsafe to stay with him would be if the Dark Lord _did_ come back and he _did_ join him – and since he would never do that again with any willingness, that could only mean—

"But you…" He sighs and cards a hand through Draco's hair. "How could I not?"

Draco is staring up at Professor Snape, and his eyes are burning. "I couldn't ask you…"

"You don't have to."

He finds that it's suddenly a little bit hard to breathe. "I – I had only meant to warn you of the threat, I didn't think you'd—"

"Then clearly, you are not quite as smart as you'd like to believe." Professor Snape bends down and plants a benedictory kiss on the top of his head.

Draco makes a small, strangled noise, and then throws his arms around Professor Snape's middle, burying his face in his chest. With a sigh, Professor Snape returns the embrace and strokes gently at Draco's hair.

"Professor Snape," Harry says reverently, "I had no idea you were actually this nice."

"Careful, Mr. Potter," he says, though he doesn't let go of Draco.

"It's just – you know – you're always kind of scary in class…"

"Just because school is out doesn't mean I'm not still your professor."

Harry grins and looks sheepish, but also more than a little bit pleased. He pours the tea.


	13. 13 August, 1992

_Stupidity combined with arrogance and a huge ego will get you a long way._  
Chris Lowe

* * *

"What's left?" Harry asks, peering over Draco's shoulder to look at the list.

"Just the books and potion ingredients," Draco answers.

"We're near enough to Flourish & Blotts," says Professor Snape, lifting one hand to shadow his eyes from the glare of the August sun. Diagon Alley is bustling and sunny and loud, thick with people in brightly-colored robes.

"Can we stop at the broom shop?" Harry asks, craning his neck to get a look at the front door of Quality Quidditch Supplies through the crowd as they pass it.

Draco looks at him askance. "Thinking of trying out for Quidditch this year, are you?"

Harry looks back and grins clumsily. "Thinking of it, yeah. I did well during flying lessons. Madame Hooch says I'm a natural on a broom."

"Of course you are," Professor Snape says, sounding pained.

"So can we go?"

"Later. We'll get the rest of your supplies first."

"And then have lunch," Draco says. "I'm starving."

When they come upon the wide double doors of Flourish & Blotts, the bustle and clamor thicken exponentially. Draco frowns and stands on his tiptoes, trying to determine the reason for it.

"Oh, no," says Professor Snape suddenly. He's staring at something between the heads of the others in the crowd, looking horrified and slightly nauseous. "Oh, no, no, no."

Draco frowns up at him. "What's wrong?"

"No, no," he says. "No, you boys are on your own for this one."

"You're leaving?" Harry asks.

"I'll get your potion ingredients. We'll meet back at Cafe Leche. Good luck and godspeed."

And just like that, Professor Snape turns on a heel and strides away, robes billowing around his feet. Draco stares after him in silence for a moment, then looks back to Harry, who is wearing a mirrored look of confusion.

"Well," Draco says, "_now_ I'm curious."

Harry's face breaks into a grin and together they push their way through the crowd.

It turns out to be easier said than done. Now that he's in the thick of things, fighting for a way into the shop, Draco can pick out snippets of sentences—

"—can't _believe_ it's actually him!"

"Do you think he'd take a photograph—?"

"Look, there he is!"

There are camera flashes going off from all around, and when Draco manages to break through to the front of the pack, he finds a handsome, golden-haired man beside a stack of books, preening and smiling brilliantly for the cameras.

"Who's that?" Harry asks into Draco's ear.

"Gilderoy Lockhart, apparently," Draco answers, eyeing the books. They're all freshly-printed, starch and glossy, and all the covers seem to feature their author.

"He's the one that wrote all our textbooks this year, isn't he?"

Draco is about to reply, but before he can, there's a sudden voice that pierces through the noise:

"It _can't_ be Harry Potter?"

Harry goes still and wide-eyed like a frightened deer. Gilderoy Lockhart is beaming at him, and he swoops right forward, grabbing him by the shoulder.

"Nice big smile, Harry," Draco can hear him say. "Together, you and I are worth the front page."

And suddenly the crowd is muttering equal parts _Gilderoy Lockhart_ and _Harry Potter_ and the camera flashing gets even more frequent. Draco watches, halfway between horrified and incredibly amused, as Lockhart puts an arm around Harry and gives his best dazzling smile.

Harry gives Draco a desperate look. _Help me,_ he mouths.

On the one hand, Draco knows how much Harry hates the spotlight. On the other hand, this is hilarious and Draco's pretty sure he can't do anything, anyway.

_Sorry,_ Draco mouths back, really trying to pretend this isn't funny.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary moment this is!" Lockhart begins loudly, and Draco immediately tunes him out.

His eyes move across the crowd. They've sectioned off a large part of the shop surrounding the table where, according to the poster, he will be signing copies of his autobiography, but Draco thinks he spies a way around to get into the store proper and start gathering the books off the list.

He worms his way through the crowd slowly but surely. He manages to grab two copies of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ when he hears a very familiar voice that sets his heart racing.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those raids…"

Draco swallows and looks over. Sure enough, his father is standing towards the back of the shop, opposite Arthur Weasley and much of the Weasley brood, looking pressed and polished and perfect as ever.

Draco has plenty of confidence in his abilities, of course. He's sure that he can be seen or even talk to his father without triggering the memories that Draco's obliviated. But if someone starts asking questions about his son – someone like Arthur Weasley, perhaps – there's no easy way to predict how he'll react.

"I hope they're paying you overtime?" his father asks, before reaching a hand into the cauldron of a redheaded girl – the youngest Weasley, no doubt – and producing a ratty, second-hand textbook. "Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Draco's eyes swivel to Arthur Weasley. His face is flushed purple and his hands are clenching at his sides. Draco is suddenly worried that he might actually attack.

"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," says Arthur Weasley.

"Clearly," his father answers, gray eyes narrowed. He drops the textbook back in the young girl's cauldron and—

—what was that? Draco narrows his eyes and cranes his neck. Tucked in against the textbook is another book, smaller, bound in green leather. Draco can smell the Dark Magic coming off it from across the room – he's certainly smelled it enough at the Manor to know.

Arthur Weasley is gritting his teeth and gearing up for an attack and Draco _has_ to get that book back because this obviously has something to do with whatever plan the Dark Lord has for his father and without really thinking about it, Draco inserts himself between the two men.

He doesn't really have a plan beyond the knowing that neither of them will go for their wands when there's a child standing between them. And, indeed, both of them glance to him briefly and their hackles settle marginally.

"Let's just pay and go," says Arthur Weasley's wife urgently, pulling at her husband's sleeve.

"Good luck with that," his father ripostes, which draws a last snarl out of the Weasley patriarch before he and his wife turn and head for the counter to pay.

Draco looks back at his father without really meaning to, and quite to his surprise, his father looks back at him.

There's no light of recognition on his father's eyes, which is good, and Draco does not feel a tiny pang of sadness because he _definitely_ does not miss him and Mother in spite of everything.

When his father notices Draco staring, Draco says the only thing he can think of:

"Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

His father makes a face and strides away. Draco releases a breath.

"Good timing," says a voice from behind him, and Draco turns. The youngest Weasley, short and quiet and smiling shyly, is inching over. "I think they were about to rip each other apart. You're Draco, right?"

Draco looks down at her cauldron.

"Sorry," he says, "I think my father dropped…"

He reaches in and pulls out the book. The smell of Dark Magic is heavy, and Draco is glad that most witches and wizards don't recognize it. The girl blinks at the book in confusion.

"Yeah," she answers, "that's definitely not mine."

"Must have been an accident," Draco says. "I'll get it back to him. Thanks."

"You're friends with Harry Potter, aren't you?"

"Uh," Draco says. "Yes."

She grins and bites down on her lower lip. "Is he nice? I hear he's nice."

"He's very nice," Draco answers, deciding that he has to get out of this before it's too late. "See you at Hogwarts. Good luck with the Sorting."

He pushes past her before she can respond, tucking the book into his robe pocket. It's unbearably heavy against his chest.


	14. 18 September, 1992

_The true genius shudders at incompleteness._  
Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

When Draco pops by the dungeons for his weekly tea with Professor Snape, he is surprised to find that he is not alone.

"... really think you should consider it!" finishes Professor Lockhart with great enthusiasm.

Professor Snape seems intent on meeting his enthusiasm with an equal amount of apathy and disdain. "I am not the club-hosting sort of professor."

"Oh, come now. Where's your good sportsmanship? You are surely the most competent duellist in the school – well, apart from me, of course!"

Professor Lockhart guffaws like he actually made a joke. Draco swallows the choke of laughter lodged in his throat. Professor Lockhart may be the most wildly incompetent wizard Draco has ever met, which makes his staggering amount of false bravado all the more hilarious. And yes, it does make Draco question the hiring practices of Headmaster Dumbledore, but damn it all if he's not the most entertaining man on two legs.

"Of _course,_" Professor Snape says acidly.

"Perhaps I could at least get you to agree to a demonstration?" prods Professor Lockhart, smiling brilliantly. "An example duel between two colleagues could prove a useful teaching method!"

"Oh, my God," Draco says before he can stop himself, and they both turn toward him.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Professor Lockhart cries. "My apologies! I didn't see you there."

Professor Snape makes a small, pained sound.

"I'm sorry for intruding, Professors, and I couldn't help but overhear – if I may say so, Professor Lockhart, I think your idea sounds _excellent_."

Draco didn't think it was possible, but Professor Lockhart's smile gets even brighter. "Do you, indeed!"

"Oh, _yes,_" Draco says, and it takes every trick in his book to keep his face earnest. "I would _love_ to see you duel Professor Snape. I could learn _so much_."

Professor Lockhart spins on one of his shiny buckled shoes back towards Professor Snape. "You see, Severus?" he says knowingly. "That's your star pupil urging you to do it!"

"Oh, yes, Professor, _do_."

"That's enough, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape says, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I shan't take no for an answer!" Professor Lockhart decides flippantly. "I'll speak to the headmaster about arranging the first meeting of the Duelling Club as soon as possible, and I expect you to be there, Severus! With bells on!"

He glides down the aisle leading to the door, but stops beside Draco with a mischievous smile.

"Play your cards right, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Lockhart says, "and I may give you some personal attention in imparting the art of duelling!"

Draco manages not to laugh, somehow. He even manages some reverence when he answers, "I would be _honored_."

Professor Lockhart chuckles and claps Draco on the shoulder. "Such a charming young man!" he says, gliding past and out of the classroom. It is not until Draco hears the telltale click that he lets himself collapse into fits of laughter.

"Thank you so _very_ much," Professor Snape says wearily. "Now I have to spend even _more_ time with the blowhard."

"He wants to _duel_ you!" Draco laughs. "_You!_ Professor, you've _got_ to do it – I _have_ to see—!"

"It seems I hardly have a choice now," he grumbles, standing and heading back towards his office. Draco follows behind, still laughing.

"Did I tell you that he loosed a herd of pixies in class the other day?" Draco says. "Must have been a hundred of them; thank Merlin I was able to—"

Draco stops quite abruptly when Professor Snape opens up the drawer of his office desk and produces a familiar book bound with green leather. Draco's smile falters.

"Any luck?" he asks, looking at him.

"None whatsoever," Professor Snape answers, setting it down. "You're right that it's saturated with ambient Dark Magic, but I've checked it over a thousand times and in a thousand ways – there's no hex, curse, or jinx. It's saturated with Dark Magic but there doesn't appear to be any Dark Magic actually _attached_ to it. It seems to me to be nothing more than an unused diary. Perhaps it's absorbed some Dark Magic from proximity to more sinister artifacts."

Draco frowns and picks it up. The green leather is smooth and cool underneath his fingertips, and the acrid scent of Dark Magic is almost unbearably thick.

"It just doesn't seem like it can be a coincidence," Draco says, flipping through it. The pages are yellowing and frayed, but blank. "What are the odds that my father drops a book like this into the arms of an unsuspecting girl by accident, so soon after he's been in contact with the Dark Lord?"

"Stranger things have happened," Professor Snape remarks. "Ceylon or Assam?"

"Assam," Draco answers without thinking, and Professor Snape heads to the hearth to fill the kettle. "I'm going to look into it a bit more. Not that I don't trust your assuredly more learned opinion on the Dark Arts, but I just…"

Professor Snape shrugs. "As in all things, be cautious," he says. "Though I really don't think there's all that much to worry about. Still, I've been wrong before."

Draco doesn't answer. He's thumbing through the pages slowly, frowning, wondering, lost in thoughts of Dark Magic and blank diaries. Surely, he thinks, _surely_ there's more to it than that.


	15. 9 October, 1992

_Nature almost surely operates by combining chance with necessity, randomness with determinism._  
Eric Chaisson

* * *

It is, Draco thinks, just like Alexander Fleming and his fateful yet unexpected discovery of the fungus that destroyed staphylococci – except it isn't like that at all.

In one instant, Draco is scribbling down a formula he wants to remember, and all he has to write on is that damned diary smelling of Dark Magic. In another instant, the words are absorbing into the paper and suddenly, _the diary is responding_.

_Fascinating,_ the diary writes, and Draco drops his quill. _This implies, if my vague calculations are correct, that a particle can exist in multiple states simultaneously._

Draco feels a familiar, terrible, wonderful, addictive rush, the same one he felt staring down all three heads of the dog that was guarding the Philosopher's Stone. He is all at once terrified and fascinated. His heart starts to race in the side of his throat and his hands start to tremble.

_This does seem to violate the laws of commonly accepted physics, doesn't it?_ the diary writes. Its penmanship is slanted and careful.

The words are staring up at him, almost like they're challenging him to respond. Draco blinks a few times just to ensure that his own mind isn't playing tricks on him – after all, it is well past midnight, and he hasn't been getting much sleep lately.

Despite his shaking hands, Draco manages to pick up the quill he'd dropped on his desk and slowly – oh, so slowly, and so carefully – scratches out a response—

_I gather that you're not familiar with quantum mechanics?_

—because if a sentient diary is going to casually strike up a conversation with him, Draco may as well do it the service of being cordial.

Besides, he needs more information, and he needs it more desperately, more urgently than he needs his next breath of air.

Eventually, a reply appears.

_You must forgive me,_ the diary responds. _I am somewhat temporally displaced, and any more modern scientific advances are well beyond me. The term is unfamiliar._

Draco's fingers wring and flex around the quill. His heartbeat is ever-hastening. Draco's mind is racing ahead of the rest of him, churning, roaring, and the pieces are starting to coalesce into a firm idea, but it's not enough.

_It is called a superposition,_ Draco writes, slowly. _Matter that exists in multiple states simultaneously._

The words sink away.

_How appropriate,_ the diary answers after a moment.

Draco's head spins. He has to be very, very careful with this, because the scent of Dark Magic is getting thicker with every word that appears on the page and he cannot – must not – forget to whom this diary is tied.

_What is your name?_ Draco writes.

_How terribly discourteous of me,_ the diary returns. _My apologies; I should have introduced myself at once. My name is Tom Riddle._

Draco stands up so abruptly that the chair in which he'd been sitting topples over and clatters onto the floor. Fear and adrenaline surge through his veins like liquid fire. Draco stares at the words but he cannot make himself believe them.

Because surely that is not possible. How can that be possible?

A door opens with a squeak and the noise of it shreds Draco's already white-hot nerves. He whirls on a heel and sees Professor Flitwick, short and in his sky-blue nightclothes and silver dressing gown, holding a cup of tea in one hand and frowning at Draco in concern.

"Professor," Draco manages, though his voice is breathless.

"Mr. Malfoy," says Professor Flitwick. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Not a ghost," Draco says before he can stop himself, "just matter in superposition."

Professor Flitwick gives a bit of a start. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm fine," Draco breathes. He gives his wand a flick and the chair rights itself. "I'm fine. I'm fine." Maybe if he says it enough, he can make himself believe it. "I'm sorry. I didn't – I hope I didn't wake you, Professor?"

"No," says Professor Flitwick, still looking concerned. "A nightly cup of tea is my ritual. Are you _sure_ you're quite all right, my lad? You look rather—"

Draco seizes the diary, strides across the room, and throws it into the hearth, where the fire is burning low.

"—er, Mr. Malfoy?"

The damn thing _isn't burning_. Why won't it burn?

"_Diffindo!_" Draco cries, pointing his wand straight at it. Several blackened logs break in half and a brick cracks up the middle, but the diary doesn't even move. "_Confringo!_" A blast of red magic causes the metal grate holding the firewood to collapse, but the diary only rattles.

"Mr. Malfoy—!"

"_Expulso!_" An explosion that makes the flames roar, briefly, back to a burning brightness, but the diary is unchanged. "_Deprimo!_" Nothing. Bloody _nothing_.

"_Mr. Malfoy!_" squeaks Professor Flitwick. "What in Merlin's name are you _doing?_"

Draco pushes two hands through his hair and stares at the diary in silence, heart slamming in his chest. In his head he is going through every high-powered destruction spell he knows by order of severity and trying to judge whether it would be safe to do them indoors.

Professor Flitwick is suddenly beside him, though Draco can barely see him. He puts one of his hands on Draco's arm and stares up at him with equal parts concern and anger – but then, he takes in a sudden breath of air and makes a face.

"Merlin's hat," he says, "what is that _smell_—?"

He looks toward the diary.

"Goodness! That's quite a stink of Dark Magic! No wonder you're trying to destroy it."

Draco opens his mouth. He means to reply, but he isn't quite sure what to say – and even if he were, he's not sure he'd have the faculties to say it. He wonders why Professor Flitwick is familiar with the smell of Dark Magic.

He produces his wand from the sleeve of his nightshirt and gives it a swish-and-flick, and the diary lifts up out of the broken firewood.

"Come now, let's put this in a magical lockbox, shall we?"

Draco stares at him dumbly. It's the best idea he's heard all night. Draco can hardly forgive himself for walking around with it just out in the _open_ like he has.

"Right this way."

They leave the Ravenclaw common room and pad out into the hall, Professor Flitwick with his cup of tea in one hand and the diary floating along behind him, its leather caked in char but otherwise unharmed. His office isn't far – just around a corridor and up a few flights of stairs – but for the pounding of Draco's heart it might as well have been a three-mile sprint up a mountain.

His cramped little office is decorated with strings of bluish-white fairy lights, stuffed with books and pictures of family. Professor Flitwick goes rummaging through a small cupboard before he finds what he's looking for – a small, heavily runed and charmed box, about a foot long in each dimension, made of handsome, polished mahogany.

"If I may ask, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Flitwick says, guiding the diary into the box with his wand, "what on earth _is_ this?"

Draco swallows. "Sort of a long story, Professor."

"I hope it's not cursed—?"

"No, no, definitely not," Draco says. Granted, it _does_ seem to be some sort of sentient, self-aware echo of the Dark Lord's consciousness, which is far more dangerous than any curse, but as long as he keeps it in that lockbox… and hides it in his trunk until he finds a way to destroy it… "Do you mind if I keep the box?"

"Not at all," Professor Flitwick says, handing the box to Draco, who shuts and locks it with two decisive spells. "I have my sixth years make them as an exercise in preventative charms, so Merlin knows I have plenty."

"I appreciate it." Draco holds the box like it might explode at any moment, because it might.

"If you want it destroyed," Professor Flitwick says, "you might think of taking it to a professional. Dark artifacts will need much more than a blasting curse to destroy."

Draco wets his lips. He knows that, but he slung destruction spells at it anyway. Fear, Draco realizes with a steadily creeping dread, made him _stupid_. He flexes his fingers around the box and makes a mental note to make sure that doesn't happen ever again. His mind is his best – and, really, _only_ – asset, and he can't let his fear compromise it.

"Yes," he agrees. "I mean, I know. I should have known. Momentary lapse of judgment."

Professor Flitwick smiles kindly. "Even a mind like yours must lapse occasionally," he says. Ever since receiving top marks last year, Professor Flitwick has rather taken to Draco, which is fine because Draco rather likes Professor Flitwick. "Good luck, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you'll need it. It will take flames hotter than hellfire to burn a Dark artifact like that, I'm sure!"

Draco stares at Flitwick in silence a moment. In the back of his mind, Draco feels a familiar prickle that always comes with a good idea.


	16. 17 December, 1992

_Perhaps the best advice that chaos theory can give us is not to jump to conclusions; unexpected occurrences may constitute normal behavior._  
Edward Lorenz

* * *

"It's called a Horcrux," Draco says.

"Horcrux?" Harry repeats, hurrying to catch up as they exit the Gryffindor tower.

"Trouble and a half it was to find, too. Took me _weeks_ to pin it down. It's some seriously rare and volatile Dark Magic. I had to order in books special because the Hogwarts library just didn't _have_ anything on it."

"What does it do?"

"It's a sort of receptacle," he explains. "A wizard divides his soul in two and puts one half into another object – preferably, something with strong magical properties or emotional value. Then, if the wizard dies, they can be brought back to life."

Harry takes in a breath. "That's how…"

"Yes," Draco says. "And it means there must be more than one. It's been locked up in the Manor since the 70's, and if he was communicating with Quirrel last year…"

They round the corner into the main hallway, taking the steps down into the lower level. There's a steady trickle of students all filtering toward the Great Hall.

"So how do you destroy a Horcrux?"

"There are a few ways, but they're all really dangerous and difficult, so I figure we can just launch it into the sun."

Harry's steps actually falter and he nearly falls down the last three steps.

"Are – you're serious?" he asks.

Draco raises both eyebrows.

"Can we do that?" Harry continues. "Can we launch it into the sun?"

Draco shrugs. "Sure. Build up enough magical energy in a single apparatus set to propel, aim straight up at high noon. I'm pretty sure not even a Horcrux wrought by a powerful wizard can stand up against a giant ball of plasma with a surface temperature of nearly 6,000 degrees Kelvin. I kind of doubt it will even make it through the atmosphere."

"You can build a _magical rocket?_"

"It'll be a fun project," Draco decides. Harry laughs at first, but sobers after a moment.

"It's a good thing you got to it," he says gravely. "Can you _imagine_ what would have happened if it had gotten out?"

"A Horcrux can't really anything on its own," Draco says. "It only would have been a problem if someone had communicated with it long enough for it to affect them. And who would be stupid enough to discover a sentient, talking diary and not immediately hand it over to a professor?"

The Great Hall is crowded when they finally arrive. Draco had signed up for the Duelling Club the moment he saw the posters pasted around the castle – all of them, of course, plastered with the smiling face of Gilderoy Lockhart – because there was no way he would miss Professor Snape and his demonstration duel.

He can see Professor Snape up toward the front of the room, speaking tersely to Professor Lockhart and looking already like he wants to hex him.

"This is going to be great," Draco decides.

"Harry," comes a voice from their left. Draco turns and sees, to his surprise, Ron Weasley, his arms folded over his fraying robes and his freckled face set into a frown. "Malfoy."

Uncertainly, Harry returns, "Ron."

"So you've well and truly picked Malfoy, then," Ron says.

"Well, if the alternative is _you_," Harry snaps back, and Ron's face turns an unflattering shade of scarlet.

"It's not just _me_ who thinks you're daffy," Ron hisses, putting his fists on his hips and levelling Harry with a glare. "Everyone in the castle is talking about it. Harry Potter, best friends with Draco Malfoy? It seems like everybody but you knows how obviously a trap this is."

"You don't know a thing about it!" Harry says, and now he's getting angry, too. "You have no idea what he's been through, how his family—!"

Draco grabs his shoulder and turns him around to fix him with a quelling look. Harry frowns, but dutifully says nothing further. He still glares at Ron, however.

"I'm sure this little sanctimonious rant will change Harry's mind, Weasley," Draco says. "It's worked so well for the past year-and-a-half, after all. You may rest assured that this is definitely not a wasted effort that does not in any way make you look like a petulant infant."

Draco didn't think it was possible, but Weasley goes even more scarlet than before. "No one asked you, Malfoy."

"No one asked you, either, but that certainly didn't stop you."

He looks so angry that for a moment Draco thinks that he might actually attack – but luckily, Professor Lockhart calls their attention and all the students present move to crowd around the table set up in the center of the room.

The introduction and subsequent demonstration begins, and it takes all of Draco's willpower not to dissolve into frantic laughter when Professor Lockhart opens with a loquacious and mispronounced incantation and is promptly disarmed by Professor Snape with a sharp _expelliarmus_. Harry, next to him, isn't doing as well at hiding his laughter and has to clamp a hand over his mouth and nose.

But Professor Lockhart breezes right past his shame and, as if it hadn't happened at all, breaks everyone up into pairs to practice the disarming spell.

Harry has already turned to Draco and opened his mouth to ask the inevitable question when Lockhart is suddenly beside them.

"Mr. Malfoy!" he says. "I believe I promised you some individualized instruction."

"Uh," Draco says, looking between Harry and Professor Lockhart.

"Mr. Potter," Professor Lockhart says, "I'm sorry to deprive you of your friend, but why don't you partner up with Mr. Weasley?"

At once, they both look to their right, where Ron is standing beside a Gryffindor girl who Draco thinks is named Parvati. Ron looks back at them, frowning.

"I don't—" Harry begins.

"Splendid!" Professor Lockhart interrupts, offering a hand to help Draco climb up onto the table.

Draco gives Harry an apologetic look and takes Professor Lockhart's outstretched hand.

Once on top of the table, Professor Snape approaches, his hands clasped behind his back and his robes billowing around his ankles. As Professor Lockhart prattles on about going easy on Draco and making sure he learns as much as he can, Professor Snape bends his head to address him quietly:

"Don't do too much damage to him," he says.

Draco's not paying as much attention as perhaps he should. "Can you make sure Harry and Ron don't kill each other?" he asks, trying to crane his neck to get a good look at them. He can just barely see Weasley's bright ginger hair opposite Harry's mop.

Professor Snape gives them a sidelong look. "I can't guarantee anything."

"Then I can't guarantee I won't do too much damage to Professor Lockhart."

"Trust me, Draco, as a man who recently had the opportunity to hex him blind – it's like kicking a puffskein. It's easy, unrewarding, and afterwards you feel guilty."

"They just got into a bit of a row," Draco says. "Just step in if they start exchanging blows."

Professor Snape sighs. "Fine. But I expect you to hold up your end."

"Yes, yes," he returns, producing his wand from his sleeve. "No permanent damage. Honestly, he's my professor, what am I going to do?"

En lieu of answering, Professor Snape just raises an eyebrow, knowing full well what Draco _could_ do. Professor Snape steps off the table and goes to monitor the pairs of students as they start practicing the disarming spell.

"… have no reason to be concerned, is my general point; I'd never do anything to hurt you! Are you ready, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco turns forward, though half his attention is still on Ron and Harry. "Of course, Professor."

"Just simple attack and deflect spells! I attack, you deflect, you attack, I deflect, and so on."

"Right." He can see Ron growling something at Harry as they both produce their wands from their sleeves.

"This first one is called the _stymieing jinx_, a favorite of mine! You may recall that I used this to great success in _Voyages with Vampires_ when…"

Now they're arguing. Draco really should be down there; he know they can both get very hotheaded and Harry in particular can be overly protective when people start badmouthing Draco.

Professor Lockhart is chattering about something shortly before he sends out a useless little jinx; Draco deflects it with a shield charm without looking away.

And _now_ they're shouting at each other. Fantastic. Draco scans the crowd for Professor Snape as he distractedly casts a leg-locking jinx – that should be harmless enough, right? – but as Harry and Ron's argument gets more heated, they start throwing hexes at each other.

Somewhere in the periphery of his vision, Professor Lockhart crashes onto the table. Draco tunes him out and strains to listen to their conversation. He can only make out bits and pieces.

"—can't just _get over_ yourself—!"

"—bloody well _obvious_ that he's up to something, if only you'd listen to sense—!"

"Listening to sense, _that's_ rich, all the baseless gossip that goes around this school, nobody seems to have any sense!"

Their hexes are getting really nasty. Damn it, where is Professor Snape?

"Ha – ha-ha, Mr. Malfoy, that – good shot! Very good shot! Of course, if I had so wished, I would have deflected it, but I thought it better to show you…"

Halfway through his attempt to stand, Professor Lockhart collapses back onto the table, legs still locked. Draco spares him a half-glance, dispels the jinx, then looks back to Harry and Ron.

"You don't know anything _about him!_" Harry cries.

"I know he's a bloody _snake! Serpensortia!_"

Several students scream. Draco knows the spell and swears under his breath, climbing off the table and pushing his way through the crowd toward them.

The screams stop, replaced with a much deeper, more terrified silence. As he carves a path through the students, he sees a massive anaconda slithering across the floor between them, moving for Harry in slow, languid motions. Harry's lips are moving but Draco can't make out any words – he can, however, detect a low, fearsome hissing sound.

It takes Draco a moment to put together exactly what he's hearing.

"_Finite incantatem,_" says Professor Snape from behind, and the snake burns up and into nothingness.

Ron is the most surprised of any of them, by the look on his face. In fact, the only one who doesn't seem to understand what the fuss is about is Harry.

Draco swallows dryly.

"Now I get it," Ron whispers. "Now I understand. He's not corrupting you. You're _already corrupted_."

Harry stares at him uncomprehendingly. "I – what?"

Draco grabs his elbow. "We need to go," he says to Harry. "Right now."

"But I – what's he talking about?"

"Maybe _that's_ why the Dark Lord came after him," says the-girl-who-is-maybe-named-Parvati in a stage whisper. "Getting rid of competition."

"Everyone get _back to work,_" Professor Snape barks. "That is _quite_ enough ogling!"

Draco gives Harry's sleeve another tug, and he stumbles. He pulls him out of the Great Hall, mind spinning.

"What did he mean?" Harry asks as they walk, his voice tense. "He said I'm corrupted."

Draco is silent, mouth a hard line, until the doors of the Great Hall close with a resounding, fateful sound behind them.

"Draco!"

He stuffs one hand into his pocket and feels the familiar rubber ball beneath his fingertips. It seems unbearably heavy and unmovable.

"You're a Parselmouth."

"I'm a what?"

Draco turns. Harry looks so frightened – frightened, and upset, and confused. Draco is confronted with the strange reality that he felt when he first realized Harry was his friend, a reality he has perhaps not given name until this very moment.

More than anything, Draco wants to protect Harry. He sees him thrust into a world forcing him to grow up too fast and wants to slow it down; he sees him in a family that mistreats him and spirits him to safety; he sees him scared and wants to make the fear go away.

Draco has never felt this way about anyone before. It makes his heart race uncomfortably fast.

"Let's go walking," Draco says. "I'll explain."

This is a coincidence, Draco thinks. It must be a coincidence. In the back of his mind, however, Draco knows that he no longer believes in coincidence.


	17. 14 February, 1993

_Love need not speak volumes._  
Amit Abraham

* * *

"Happy Valentine's Day," Harry says, drawing Draco's attention away from the pile of papers laid out in front of him at the Ravenclaw table.

"Is it Valentine's Day?" Draco asks, looking up and noticing, for the first time, the red, pink, and white streamers hanging from the ceiling, the boxes of candy scattered across the table, and the heart-shaped decorative confetti on the ground. "Oh. So it is."

"Got a Valentine this year?" Harry asks.

"You're feeling better, then," Draco answers, rather than answer his question. For the past few weeks Harry's been in a bit of a funk as the rumors of his being a Parselmouth spread through the school. Despite Draco's assurances that it was almost definitely a coincidence and does not in any way assure that he's evil, children are vicious bastards, and one callous comment has more weight than a thousand reassurances.

Harry sinks into the chair opposite him. Though Draco had never been welcome at the Gryffindor table, the Ravenclaws – most of them more preoccupied with their books or conversations – never minded Harry.

"You know," Harry says, "I take each day as it comes."

He's nervous, Draco notices. He's shifting his weight from side to side, and glancing toward the door every few seconds, like he's expecting something.

"Are you all right?" Draco asks.

Harry looks back at him, chewing at his lower lip. Under all the apprehension, Draco can detect the signs of some other emotion – excitement? It's hard to tell.

"Fine," Harry says. "What's all this?"

He gestures toward the pile of papers. Most of them are covered in equations.

"Doing some calculations for the sun-bound rocket for the Horcrux," Draco answers. "It's a bit more complicated than I'd anticipated it being."

"Well, you can't say it's not rocket science, I suppose."

Draco stares at him uncomprehendingly.

"Sorry, Muggle joke. So when do you think it'll be ready?"

"Couple months," Draco answers, shrugging. "May, perhaps. June at the latest. For now, it's safe in the lockbox." He takes a sip of pumpkin juice.

Harry nods. He keeps looking back at the door. Draco is about to ask him if he's waiting for someone, when quite abruptly, said doors burst open, and a flock of white doves come soaring in, each one with a letter clasped in its beak.

The arrival draws several startled shouts. The birds scatter across the Great Hall, each one landing in front of a student. Just as Draco is putting together that these are part of the elaborate Valentine's Day celebration, one of the doves lands in front of _him_.

Draco blinks at the bird, startled. It lowers its white head and drops a large, starch, cream-colored envelope atop his pile of papers. _Draco Malfoy_ is written on it in silvery calligraphy.

The bird flies away again and Draco is left staring at the envelope in stunned silence.

"It's for you," Harry says unhelpfully.

Draco looks up at him. He puts it together immediately, of course, and _oh, Merlin_. His face suddenly feels a bit hot, which is a completely unacceptable reaction. He makes a small noise to clear his throat and picks up the envelope. There's a bright red wax seal which Draco breaks to pull out a white card.

The front of the card has a moving, stylized illustration of a silver butterfly flapping its wings with soft shimmers of magic. At once, Draco thinks back to the conversation he'd had with Harry several nights ago, where he had explained – or at least tried to explain – the concept of chaos theory. He'd used Edward Lorenz's famous explanation of the butterfly effect, and Harry had asked, with a small and wistful smile, if there were a lot of butterflies involved in mathematics.

Draco recalls laughing, and feeling that strange and ever-more-frequent pressure in his chest that made his heart beat a little too fast.

He swallows and opens the card – and all at once, catching him quite off-guard, dozens of magical silver butterfly explode out from within. Draco laughs, startled, as the butterflies make elaborate twists and loops through the air before dissolving into a fine silvery dust that showers back down.

_Be my valentine_ is written on the inside of the card, though it's unsigned. Draco is somewhere between mortified, delighted, baffled, and giddy. It's a strange and wonderful feeling.

"Who's it from?" Harry asks.

Draco swallows the response of _you, obviously_ and instead looks up at Harry, who seems to be making a rather concerted effort to not be too interested in the answer.

So he plays along. "It doesn't say," Draco answers, and Harry nods. Draco bites down on the smile that arrives on his mouth, unbidden, and he looks back down at the card. "It's sweet," he adds, softly.

Harry looks more than a little pleased.


	18. 19 June, 1993

_Every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity, an obligation._  
John D. Rockefeller

* * *

"… and once I managed to quantify a unit of magical energy, it became a lot easier. Did you know that no one ever thought to put magical energy into units? I suppose there's never been much call for it in magical theory, but still, it seems like someone would have – Harry? Keep up!"

"Physically or intellectually?" Harry asks as he shakes a pebble from his shoe.

"Cheeky. Come on, it's nearly time."

Harry kicks back on his shoe and hurries to catch up. "What are they called?"

"What are what called?"

"Your units of magical energy."

"They don't really have a name. I've just been using the Greek letter mu."

"You should name them after yourself. It worked well for Watt."

Draco laughs. "What, a 'Malfoy' of magic? Doesn't exactly have a ring to it."

Grinning, Harry admits, "Not really, no."

Out past the Quidditch Pitch, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, there's a low, grassy hill that commands a splendid view of the lake. In early summer, the air is saturated with the scent of flora and bright with sunshine. As soon as they reach the top of the knoll, Draco sinks to his knees and starts setting it up.

In the end, the device ended up looking rather like an upside-down teapot with four spouts. It is alive and almost trembling with magical potential energy to send it flying when activated, shrouded with stabilizing charms to keep it on its course, and painted bright red to make it look cool.

"Got your watch?" Draco asks, producing the magical lockbox from his bag and opening it so he could put the diary inside the bright red teapot rocket.

Harry fishes out the fob watch Draco gave him and clicks it open. "Forty seconds till the top of the hour," he says.

"Just in time." He casts the last minute spells, then sets the teapot rocket down and hurries back down the hill, Harry at his heels.

"Twenty-five seconds," Harry supplies.

Draco conjures a blanket to spread out on the grass and sits down. He produces the shrunken picnic basket from the pocket of his robe and expands it with a quick spell. Harry sits down next to him, though he's got one eye on the watch.

"Fifteen seconds."

"Here's to a successful school year," Draco says, flipping open the picnic basket and grabbing a quick bite of one of the packed muffins.

"Five… four… three… two… one…!"

Draco shoots out a fast activation spell that hits the teapot rocket dead-center. The reaction is tremendous; it moves so fast that Draco would have missed it if he'd blinked. In one second it's there, in the next, it's a streak of red screaming up into the air, trajectorized straight for the sun.

Harry laughs, and it's not long before it's well out of view.

"That was _fast,_" he says.

"It has to escape earth's orbit; of course it's fast!"

"And it's going all the way to the sun." Harry's voice is almost reverent and it makes Draco laugh.

"Well, it's certainly bound for the sun," Draco says. "Chances are pretty good that the Horcrux will get burnt to cinders in the atmosphere."

Harry grabs the flask of pumpkin juice Draco had packed and pours out two cups. Draco takes one and Harry raises his. "To creative problem-solving."

Draco laughs and knocks his glass against Harry's.

They're silent for a while. The shrieking has settled into a distant thrum from the sky before it begins fading into silence.

"Now, Merlin willing," Draco says, leaning back on one hand, "the universe will finally leave you alone for a while."

Harry gives him a sidelong smirk. "Is that why you did all this?"

"It was mostly an excuse to build a rocket."

"You don't have to protect me, you know," Harry says, but he's smiling when Draco looks at him.

"Some days I feel like I do," Draco admits, with some reluctance. He takes a sip of pumpkin juice. "No one else seems to be doing a very good job of it."

"So that automatically makes it your problem, does it?"

"Are you complaining?"

"I'm not complaining," Harry says, "I'm just observing."

"That's my job."

"Complaining or observing?"

"Both."

Harry smiles, and Draco feels a resurgence of that crushing sensation in his chest. It's been getting more frequent lately, strongest in these quiet moments when the understanding is instinctual, unspoken. After a great deal of deliberation, Draco has decided that he likes the feeling.

Now if only he knew what to do with it. Draco is sure that this is a product of his utter lack of social graces.

"It's a strange compulsion," Draco says, more quietly, staring into his pumpkin juice. "And that is the best word for it, I think. Compulsion. I felt it before I even knew who you were. I was outraged on your behalf from the start over the way the world was treating you."

Harry is still smiling, though it seems a little more sad now. "I do appreciate it," he says, "though the irony isn't lost on me."

"Irony?"

"You keep doing all of these impossible things because you say I shouldn't have to deal with them. So then what is that means _you_ should?"

Draco is silent a moment. He stares up at the sky, at the wisps of cirrus clouds lit silver by the sun, and considers his answer.

"I don't know," he replies after a moment. "I suppose it's just the fact that I can."

"You can, therefore you should?"

"Maybe." Draco finishes off his cup of pumpkin juice. "Ethics are complicated."

Harry smirks. "I hope I get to pay you back for it someday."

Draco opens his mouth, hesitating on the edge of _you pay me back every day by being my friend_. At the last moment, he decides against saying it, and licks his lips. Too revealing, he thinks. Draco doesn't like being revealing – it makes him feel vulnerable.

"Are you nervous about the Gryffindor-Slytherin game coming up?" he says instead, and they spend the rest of the afternoon sprawled out on the blanket in the grass at the base of the hill, talking and laughing and watching the sky, and it's the best day Draco's had in a long time.


	19. 31 July, 1993

_Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know._  
Ernest Hemingway

* * *

"We're not going to sing," Professor Snape says, rather than something more appropriate like _happy birthday, Harry_ or _and many more to come_. He sets the cake down on the table – store bought, after he and Draco agreed that they were in no way qualified to bake a cake – under the awning of the back patio of 29 Spinner's End. The sweltering summer heat is tempered to bearable levels by the pale blue cooling charms that churn lazily overhead like silk submerged in water.

Harry is beaming. "I think that would be weird, anyway, with just three people. Chocolate?"

"I thought that would be a safe choice, yes."

"Happy birthday," Draco says, conjuring thirteen candles with a quick spell and lighting them with another. "Make a wish?"

Harry laughs. "I don't need anything."

"Wishes generally aren't made for things you _need_," Draco says.

"Also, they're almost always pointless without specific magical intervention," Snape adds as he sits down, and Draco throws a balled-up napkin at him.

"Stop being cynical," Draco chides. "It's his birthday and he can make a wish if he wants to."

"I wouldn't know what to ask for," Harry says.

"You can come up with something, surely."

Harry looks at Draco in silence for a moment, then to Professor Snape, then to the cake, where the conjured candles burn their conjured flames. A warm wind whispers through the air, snaking between the buildings and rustling the trees.

"I wish," Harry begins, slowly, like he's not sure, "that life will be safe but not boring, that bad things will only happen to make me more grateful for the good things, and that the people I love are safe and happy."

Draco is strangely touched, though he hopes it doesn't register on his face.

"And I wish for Gryffindor to win the Quidditch Cup this year." He blows out the candles.

"You are so very much your mother's child," Professor Snape says suddenly, and Harry looks up in surprise.

"You knew my mother?"

The lines of Professor Snape's throat roll as he swallows. Draco knows him well enough to see the pain he's trying so desperately to hide. He had never spoken of it, of course – Professor Snape was never one to share, and Draco never one to pry – but Draco had worked out most of the story from a thousand little hints in the years he'd known him.

"I did," he says, softly. "You have her eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"They never stop, actually," Harry answers.

Professor Snape smiles, and it's nothing but pain. Draco frowns, suddenly overcome with the temptation to put a reassuring hand on his arm. He resists.

"You look just like your father, but you have her eyes," he says. "Her eyes and her spirit. When I first saw you in my class, I thought I would never be able to survive with a walking reminder of – of her, so close, but I…"

Draco has never seen Professor Snape this close to inarticulate. He takes in a centering breath and leans back in his chair, turning his face skyward.

"It's better, I think," he says, "this way. More difficult, but more rewarding. It's better to cherish a living memory than cling to a dead one."

"I—" Harry begins, but falters. "I didn't mean to upset you…"

He releases a breath so long that he must have been holding it for twenty years. He smiles again, with more strength, and puts an affectionate hand on Harry's hair.

"I'm not upset," he says, and seems to mean it. "I'm glad. Happy birthday, Harry."

Draco starts dividing up the cake with a series of careful spells. "War looms, a madman seeks to make his return, the world is conspiring against a thirteen-year-old, and here we are, glad. Does that make us insane?"

"Too much perspective," Harry says, eagerly taking his slice of cake.

"The burden of genius," Professor Snape says, smirking at Draco, "is that you can never make yourself forget the perspective."

Draco averts his eyes. He has not stopped disliking the term genius. He stares out into the cement and mortar jungle of the little industrial neighborhood, thinking about wars and Dark Magic and conspiracy.

"Eat your cake, Draco," urges Professor Snape, drawing him back out of his own mind. Draco manages a smile and sets to eating.


	20. 1 September, 1993

_The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear._  
Nelson Mandela

* * *

"Draco, we're going to be late!"

"No, we aren't," he says. He hands the vendor three knuts and takes the proffered copy of _The Daily Prophet_ with a nod of thanks.

"I can hear the engines!"

"Would you just hold on? I promise we're not going to miss the bloody train."

"Come _on_."

There's a hand around his wrist and Draco stumbles when it pulls him sharply to one side. Draco sighs, knowing that he won't be able to scan the headlines until they're aboard.

Hampstead Halfway, the glamoured little alcove tucked behind a perception filter in the middle of King's Cross Station, vanishes abruptly as Draco is tugged – _dragged_, really – past the ward. At least he managed to get a copy of the paper.

It's not until they're pushing through the platform pillar and up to the long, scarlet train that Harry finally releases his wrist.

"There, you see?" Draco says as they climb into one of the train cars toward the end. "I told you we weren't in any danger of missing it."

Harry doesn't answer. He pulls open a compartment door. It's open, save for a single man dressed in torn, shabby clothes, slumped and sleeping in the corner.

"Werewolf," Draco says before he can stop himself.

"What?" Harry asks.

"Nothing. Seems we've got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year." He sits down and tucks his trunk under his seat.

"What happened to Lockhart?"

"At an educated but completely random guess, I would say that someone must have sent a copy of his final exam to Professor Dumbledore with all the questions like _what is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color_ circled in bright red ink." Draco flips open his newspaper.

"You didn't," Harry says.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that I did anything."

Harry chuckles. "Still, can't say he didn't have it coming."

Draco finds the article he was looking for and spends a while skimming it. Underneath them there's a great hiss as the train starts to move, groaning and pulling from the station.

A few moments of silence pass as Draco reads. After a moment, Harry leans over and whispers, just barely loud enough for Draco to hear, "Who _is_ that?"

"Professor Remus J. Lupin," Draco answers, just as quietly, without looking away from the paper.

"What? How do you know?"

"It says so on his briefcase." It was one of the first things Draco had noticed when he came into the compartment. That and the fact he is a werewolf.

"If he's a professor, what's he doing taking the train?"

"How do you imagine a man breaks out of Azkaban?" Draco asks, foregoing the whispering.

"What's Azkaban?"

Draco looks at Harry in surprise a moment. "I keep forgetting you don't know these things," he says. "Azkaban is a wizarding prison. It's on a rock in the North Sea."

"Oh. I don't know. How would _you_ break out of Azkaban?"

"Couldn't tell you, not without being there."

"So who escaped?" Harry asks, settling down next to Draco and stretching his legs out on the seat.

"My cousin."

The answer catches Harry off-guard, clearly; Draco can tell by the way he jerks slightly.

"You – you've got a cousin in Azkaban?"

"Not anymore, apparently," Draco says, folding the paper back up and sitting back. "And I think he's technically my second cousin."

"Who is he?"

"Sirius Black," he says, and he detects the subtlest of twitches from the slumped figure on the other side of the compartment. Not sleeping, then. Draco's not surprised. His breathing isn't slow enough to be that of someone sleeping. "Black sheep of the family. Or white sheep, as the case may be."

"What did he do?" Harry asks.

"If you mean what he did to become the Black family pariah, that'll take some saying. If you mean what he did to get into Azkaban…"

Draco frowns at Harry. Perhaps he should have told him this story earlier. Still, there's never been much of a call to do so. It's never really been relevant.

"I think it's worth mentioning that I don't believe the official story," Draco says.

"What official story?" asks Harry, as he sits forward.

"That he sold your parents out to the Dark Lord."

He waits for some sort of reaction on Harry's face, but is left waiting for quite some time. Harry leans back and looks toward the window, all while keeping his expression carefully and studiously devoid of emotion.

Harry doesn't say anything, and Draco doesn't like that at all. Harry is only this quiet when something's wrong.

Draco isn't sure what to say, though he knows he should – _has_ to – say something. He opens his mouth, but right at that moment, there's a tremendous squealing sound, and the train rattles to a very sudden halt, nearly throwing them both forward.

"What in—?" Harry says, catching himself just barely on his seat.

At once, Draco stands and goes to the window, but he can't see anything out of the ordinary. But with the window cracked open, he can _smell_.

"Dark Magic," Draco whispers, and all the pieces connect rapidly in his head.

"Draco? What's going on? Why have we stopped?"

"Dementors," he says. "He's bound for Hogwarts. Why is he bound for Hogwarts?"

"What? Who? What's a dementor?"

Draco doesn't answer. He heads for the compartment door and pokes his head out just in time to see the light in the corridor vanish, evaporated like water. At the far end, he can see living shadow, warping, twisting, undulating, moving in ebbs like water on sand. He swallows.

"Right," Draco says. "The important thing is to be calm. These are Azkaban dementors, which means they are under Ministry employ, and – and should not be dangerous."

Merlin, though, they're fucking terrifying. His heart is thrumming in his chest already.

"Stand back," says a hoarse voice in his ear, and Draco whirls.

The werewolf is standing now, body tight and poised, his wand in one hand, his eyes focused on the dementor as it ripples toward them.

Draco stands back.

"Why is it dark?" Harry whispers. His voice is wan, trembling.

"Try to focus on a happy memory," Draco says. "Can you do that, Harry? Think of something happy and don't stop thinking of it."

"I…" Harry is staring at the door, pupils blown wide and transfixed over Professor Lupin's shoulder, where Draco can hear – _feel_ – the hissing darkness.

"Think of Paris," Draco whispers, refusing to turn around. He grabs Harry's arms and inserts himself between Harry and the door. "Remember Paris? Last year? When I took you to the Champs Elysées, to Cecilia Gilli, and we laughed about how we didn't understand the appeal of haute couture?"

Harry's skin is clammy underneath his fingertips, but his eyes are refocusing on Draco.

"We were laughing so hard that all those classy Parisians were giving us dirty looks and it only made us laugh harder. Do you remember?"

"There's no one in here," Professor Lupin says, voice drawn. "Move on."

There's some dreadful snarling hiss in response and Harry shudders. Draco grips him even tighter, though whether it's for Harry's benefit or his own is unclear.

"And then later that same day," Draco chokes, "we went down to Île de la Cité, to la Sainte-Chapelle, and you said the stained glass was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. You told me you didn't know if there was a god, but the chapel made you think there might be. Do you remember, Harry? Don't stop remembering."

Harry tries. Draco can see him trying. He knows it isn't easy. Keeping those memories in the front of his mind is like holding water in cupped hands. The vividness turns grey, the smiles and laughter sink away as though they had never been at all.

"_Go,_" snarls Professor Lupin. "There's _no one here_."

Harry looks like he's about to pass out. Draco squeezes his arms all the harder and shuts his eyes, willing himself back to Paris in that heavy summer heat when everything was fine and beautiful.

"_Expecto patronum!_"

There's a dreadful shriek, a rush of air and shadow, and then nothing. Draco rakes in a breath and Harry makes a soft wheezing sound as he pulls himself upright.

"_What,_" Harry gasps, "was _that?_"

Professor Lupin turns. He looks a bit white, making the long scars on his face almost invisible, but otherwise composed.

"A dementor," he answers. "Chocolate?"

"Any comment on what those dementors are likely to find on this train, Professor?" Draco asks, because he saw his reaction to the name Sirius Black, and really, what's he meant to do, _not_ ask?

He looks down at Draco, hazel eyes sharp. His expression is, by turns, surprised, bemused, thoughtful, then back to composed.

"Not at present, Mr. Malfoy," he answers, then repeats: "Chocolate?"


	21. 15 October, 1993

_Nothing is as frustrating as arguing with someone who knows what he's talking about._  
Sam Ewing

* * *

Draco doesn't even realize he has company until he hears the chair across from him scrape across the floor. He looks up from his book in time to see Harry, stony-faced and silent.

He doesn't bother asking whether or not he's all right; he wouldn't waste the breath. "What happened?"

"Ron Weasley," he answers.

Draco twirls his quill around his thumb and forefinger. "He does seem to have a way of happening."

Harry's lips curl briefly away from his teeth, then he looks averts his eyes. "Apparently I'm the reason Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban."

He's heard the rumor as much as Harry, of course. It would have taken more effort to remain ignorant. "I don't think that's true," he says.

"When is it _not_ about me?" Harry asks, and the bitterness in his voice makes Draco frown. "Let's be honest, there's been a pattern these last few years."

"Pattern does not causality make," Draco says. "Not that I disagree with your assessment – you _did_ get an underground death trap tailor-made for you at the age of eleven – but I think, for the first time, this actually _isn't_ about you."

"You're the smartest person I know, Draco, but you can't just pretend like this isn't a huge coincidence."

Draco shakes his head. "It doesn't add up. There are too many unexplained gaps in the story. He's bound for Hogwarts – that much I concede – but if he was after you, why wait until _now?_"

"Maybe he's part of Voldemort's new plan," Harry spits.

Draco flinches. He has never gotten used to the way Harry so casually uses his name.

"He doesn't work for him."

"And you _know_ that, do you?"

"You're being combative," Draco says. "Stop being combative."

"I'm just saying, you wouldn't know, not for sure!"

"He was just about the _only one_ in the the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black who _didn't_—"

Draco stops short when a few passing Hufflepuffs look at him askance. He frowns, wets his lips, shuts his book, and leans forward, speaking more quietly:

"—who didn't take the Dark Mark. He was friends with your parents. He had no reason to suddenly switch sides."

"And that's why he went to Azkaban?" Harry challenges, and though he's angry, he's also keeping his voice down. "Because he _didn't_ sell them out?"

"He wasn't even given a trial," Draco says. "I should know, I sent after for records."

"I hope he finds me," Harry says. His voice is low, dangerous.

Draco frowns. "Don't say that."

"Let him come. I have a few choice questions."

He sighs and shuts his book, knowing he isn't going to be getting much more reading on magical surgery done. "Harry," he says, "I know you're angry—"

"You're bloody right I'm angry!" he says as he stands, speaking so loudly that several eyes around the study alcove are drawn to him – a distressing effect, since Draco knows how hard it is to distract a Ravenclaw from studying. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Sit down," Draco hisses. The last thing they need is undue attention.

"If you're so convinced he's innocent—"

"I never said he was _innocent_, he is breaking into a _school_ – I just don't think—"

"—then _prove_ it. That's what you _do_, isn't it, Holmes?"

Draco bristles at the derisiveness of his tone. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes, and you're being a pillock."

"As it stands, the evidence that he's a traitor and a Death Eater who got my parents killed is pretty damn persuasive, so forgive me for not sharing your saintlike impartiality!"

The comment stings, but Draco doesn't let on.

"I can't talk to you like this," he says brusquely, gathering his books and things from the table. "Go flying for a while and come find me when you're not taking swipes at your best friend."

"Wouldn't a best friend be taking my side?" Harry growls. "We're not arguing about Quidditch here, Draco, we're talking about the man who betrayed my parents!"

"No, Harry," Draco snaps back, "a friend takes sides; a _best_ friend reminds you that life is rarely so simple, even when you don't want to be reminded."

"I hardly think _you're_ qualified to know the finer points of friendship!"

If the last comment stung, this one is a slap. Draco nearly swallows his tongue in an effort to keep himself in check.

There's a moment of silence before some of the anger on Harry's face deflates, replaced by what Draco thinks is remorse – but then, how would he know? He doesn't know the finer points of friendship, his mind supplies bitterly.

"I didn't mean it like that," Harry begins haltingly, "I—"

"Fuck you," Draco interjects, turning on a heel and storming from the study room. He is composed and collected as he makes his way back to the Ravenclaw tower. He is not turning over Harry's remark in his head. He does not let it get to him. And his eyes are definitely not stinging with the threat of angry tears.


	22. 31 October, 1993

_A man has no more character than he can command in a time of crisis._  
Ralph W. Sockman

* * *

Every night for the past two weeks, Draco has gone walking through the castle alone.

He is not entirely sure why. He tells himself that it does not matter, but he still wonders.

In the past, Draco has isolated himself because he prefers isolation, and while that fact remains generally true, it does not explain why Draco decides to go walking only after several hours of trying and failing to fall asleep, or why the walks are longer on days when Harry has attempted (unsuccessfully) to pull him aside and talk to him.

He is forced to admit, however reluctantly, that there is probably more to it than the fact that Draco likes being alone.

For a while Draco considered consulting Professor Snape for advice, but their weekly teas passed without him uttering a word about it. Draco would like to make himself believe it's because he knows Professor Snape would be the worst person in the world to give advice on interpersonal relationships, but he is aware that it also likely has to do with the fact that talking about it makes his stomach hurt.

_I hardly think _you're _qualified to know the finer points of friendship!_

And, now that he thinks about it, it also makes him hate himself a little bit.

_Quod gratis asseritur, gratis negatur_. But if Draco thought the remark was nothing more than an unfounded heat-of-the-moment insult, he would have no compunction in forgetting Harry had ever said it and moving on. It follows logically that the reason he can't get it out of his head is because it is _not_ unfounded. It further follows that this truth bothers him on a level more profound than he expected.

Draco knows he is not a naturally gregarious creature. He knows he sometimes misses otherwise obvious cues in social situations, and that he is still training himself to remember the value in his relationships.

But he thought he was getting _better_. He had really been trying. If his best friend's knee jerk reaction was to the contrary, perhaps all the progress he thought he had made was in his head.

He is standing by the window and watching the dementors ripple through the moonlit sky like inky stains when there is a sudden scream. It is coming from the base of the Gryffindor tower, and the first thought to enter into Draco's mind is _Harry_.

He pulls his wand from his sleeve and runs.

As he approaches a corner he can hear strange, hiccoughing sobs and a low, snarling voice.

"—open the _goddamned way_, I _know_ you can—!"

"Help! Help, someone, help!"

Draco recognizes the latter voice as belonging to the portrait guarding the entrance to the Gryffindor tower. He does not recognize the other. He slows at the corner and presses his back flat to the wall, peering around.

"I'll burn you to cinders, you vile woman! Open the way!"

Draco takes in a breath. He spends a few seconds putting together a plan. He checks his watch.

"_Help!_" the Fat Lady wails. She has a massive slash across the bottom half of her canvas and is clutching her bosom tightly with both hands.

Plan formed by sheer luck and the grace of God, he spins around the corner, wand out.

"Cousin," Draco says, and Sirius Black whirls on the heel of his foot, his own wand gripped tightly in his hand.

Underfed, dirty, mad-eyed, shabbily-dressed, unkempt – even if Draco hadn't known in advance that he'd been in Azkaban, he still could have read it in every line of his face.

He narrows his eyes. He looks ready to attack Draco, but his curiosity seems to be just barely edging out his self-preservation.

"It's been a while," Draco continues, keeping his posture primed and ready to react. "Most if not all of my life, actually."

It takes him a moment. His head cants to one side, and when he draws the connection he lifts his chin, though he doesn't lower his wand.

"To be that blond and call me cousin," he says, "you can only be Narcissa's boy."

"The very same. Draco."

"Good to meet you, Draco," he continues, though there's a distinct snideness to his voice. "Wish the circumstances were better."

"One copes as one must. Looking to get into the Gryffindor tower?"

Sirius bares his teeth but doesn't answer.

"How dreadfully predictable. You're making it rather hard for me to defend your honor to Harry."

As Draco suspected it would, the name evokes an immediate and very telling reaction – the hard lines of his face soften, and for an instant, he nearly drops his wand.

"Harry's here," he says. "You know him."

"He's not the reason you're here."

"Of course not—!"

"You must admit, then, that this behavior is rather suspect. What is it you want from the Gryffindor tower?"

He snarls. "The filthy traitor is _my_ problem, not yours."

"You're breaking into a school full of children in the middle of the night. That is _everyone's_ problem."

He is about to ask who this traitor is when, right on time for a nightly cup of tea, the door down the hallway leading to the nearby Ravenclaw tower opens with a groan.

"_Professor Flitwick!_" Draco shouts.

Sirius's eyes widen. He looks over Draco's shoulder, then back to Draco.

"Out of the way," he snarls.

"Not a chance," Draco ripostes.

"_Stupefy—!_"

"_Protego!_" The red light bounces uselessly of a glossy sheen of magic. "_Expelliarmus!_"

"_Defendare!_ Quick little bastard, aren't you?"

"Quicker than you."

There's a rush of magic, a jet of sparks shooting out over Draco's shoulder from behind and aimed straight for Sirius. He doesn't react in time and takes the attack full-on and is thrown backward into the wall.

"Don't move, Black!" Professor Flitwick shouts behind him, with a commanding tone that takes Draco entirely by surprise. "_Incarcerous—!_"

He stumbles and ducks, avoiding the spell by mere inches, then all at once he shifts into the form of a massive, hulking black dog.

For a moment, Draco is startled, but he adjusts quickly and widens his stance. "Is that meant to intimidate me?"

Sirius snarls. It is a much more feral sound than before.

"You're not getting out of this castle, Black," he says. "You must know that. I can help you. Cooperate with Flitwick and I can help you prove—"

But before he can finish, Sirius leaps at Draco, teeth bared and flashing, and tackles him to the floor. Draco's head hits the flagstone with a dreadful _crack_, and stars explode behind his eyes. The dog bounds over him. He can hear Professor Flitwick slinging spells and great clatters of sound, along with a pained baying.

There is a slowly spreading wet heat at the back of his skull, and amid the thought-destroying pain, Draco dearly hopes that it's just blood and not brain matter. It feels like it could be either, and Draco would be more scared if there wasn't so much _pain_ to distract him—

"SIRIUS BLACK IS IN THE CASTLE," comes Professor Flitwick's magically amplified voice a moment later, echoing from every corner of the corridor, and, likely, the entire building. "EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN."

Draco tries to stand, but dizziness overtakes him and he collapses before he's halfway up. His head is screaming with so much pain that he can barely see.

There are hands on his shoulders. "Mr. Malfoy!"

"I—" Draco tries, but he can't finish the sentence. There is a disconnect between his mind and his mouth. Scattered thoughts of brain anatomy and trauma tumble through his consciousness.

Professor Flitwick is standing over him. He reaches out and touches the side of Draco's head, and when he pulls his hand back, it's dark and shiny with blood. The edges of his vision are slightly gray.

"We need to get you to the hospital wing," Professor Flitwick says, and there is no panic in his voice, which Draco finds terribly comforting. "Don't stand. I'll levitate you down."

"He's—" Draco tries again, but the damned words catch in his throat. "I need – Professor Snape—"

"_Hush,_" Professor Flitwick says severely, and Draco is suddenly cocooned in magic that picks him up off the ground; the shift sends waves of pain and nausea down his body. A shout of agony rips out of Draco's throat unbidden. "Stay still, Mr. Malfoy, stay still…"

The world goes out of focus and everything blurs together and then there is nothing.


	23. 1 November, 1993

_I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once._  
John Green

* * *

Somewhere in the periphery of his awareness, a clock chimes midnight.

Ten minutes or possibly fifty years later, there's a voice. It swims through darkness to reach him, and at first, it sounds strangely foggy and indistinct.

"—Draco, my God, what did he _do_ to you—"

Urgency, Draco thinks – isn't there some urgency? Isn't there something dreadfully important that Draco needs to do?

"—wring the bastard's _neck_—"

Hazy memories of dogs and duels and towers surface in his mind, but they're too jumbled to make sense from. Draco is almost positive that there is something of vital import that he has to see to.

"—find Harry – is he still in the Gryffindor Tower? The school is still—"

_Harry._

Draco's body surges with a kick of adrenaline and he shoots upright. He is in the hospital wing. His mind is heavy with pain potions. He has to find Harry.

"Draco! Draco, don't sit up so quickly!"

His heart is thundering in his chest. Harry is fine. Isn't he? Sirius wasn't coming after Harry. Somehow that knowledge doesn't make him feel better. Where's Harry? He needs to see him, to make sure he's okay, he just needs to be sure—

"_Draco._"

He forces his eyes to refocus. The bed shifts and Professor Snape is suddenly in his field of vision, expression drawn in lines of concern. His hands are on Draco's face and his eyes are searching him.

"Professor—" he manages.

"You had a fracture in your skull and a concussion," Professor Snape interjects. "Madame Pomfrey says she was able to heal the break in the bone and bring down the swelling, but that any damage to the brain tissue would have to heal naturally. How do you feel?"

It seems like such a simple question, but Draco doesn't know the answer, or what he might say even if he did. The lack of response brings a look of quieted rage and alarm to Professor Snape's face.

"I will kill him myself," Professor Snape vows, pulling Draco forward and into his arms. Draco breathes in the scent of him – a blend of a thousand exotic reagents, of unguents and salves and smoke and dusty books – and it does more to calm him than any combination of words could. "Attacking a child – I knew he was scum, but I could have never imagined to what _depths_ he would sink—"

Draco returns his embrace, which seems to make his angry ranting fall short. Professor Snape's arms tighten around him fractionally.

"Don't you dare frighten me like this again," Professor Snape says into Draco's hair, and all the rage has dissipated from his voice. "Don't you _dare_, Draco."

"Where is he?" Draco asks. "What happened?"

Professor Snape pulls back, though he seems reluctant to do so.

"The school went into lockdown," he answers. "The dementors have been searching, but they didn't find him. They think he escaped into the Forbidden Forest."

Draco nods slowly. "Professor," he says, "I think I've worked it out."

"Worked what out?"

"Everything."

When his answer doesn't seem to clarify anything, Draco continues.

"I know why Sirius Black came to Hogwarts. Or I know most of it. I think I have a way we can corner him."

"Draco…"

"He gave me a concussion, Professor; it's sort of personal at this point."

Professor Snape purses his lips.

There's a slight creaking sound, a rustle. Draco takes in a breath. Several things happen all at once in his chest and to various organs.

"Harry's here."

"What?"

"He's the worst invisible person ever."

Across the room, there's a deft flash of silver as Harry pulls off his invisibility cloak. He's in his flannel pajamas and bright red socks, looking nervous.

"I suppose there's little enough point in asking you how you managed to get out of the Gryffindor Tower during lockdown," Professor Snape says.

"Draco—" Harry begins, but Draco pushes himself to his feet, ignores the way he wobbles, and closes the gap between them to pull Harry into the tightest hug he can manage.

He can feel Harry's breath stutter. It ghosts across his jaw in uneven fits and starts. There is so much they should talk about, Draco knows – things they both need to say to each other – but for now, this is all he needs. This warm reassurance that Harry is fine, in his arms and pressed flush against him.

"I—" Harry begins.

"Later," Draco promises.

A pause. Harry returns the embrace. Draco's heart beats a little bit faster. Cedar and soap. Crushing sensation in his chest. Stomach churning. Electricity beneath his skin.

_Oh._

It hits him all at once, and for a moment the entire world is off-balance.

"Would that I could never let you two out of my sight again," Professor Snape says, but Draco is still reeling from the force of the realization – _how long have the signs been there, why did I never put it together_ – and he can't manage a response. He draws himself out of Harry's arms and looks at him. Harry looks back.

Cedar and soap. Crushing sensation in his chest. Stomach churning. _Fuck._

Green eyes meet his, hands grip his elbows. The clarity is devastating, but not as devastating as the uncertainty.

Because what the hell is he supposed to do _now?_


	24. 9 November, 1993

_We don't forgive people because they deserve it. We forgive them because they need it – because we need it._  
Bree Despain

* * *

"Mr. Malfoy," sighs Professor Dumbledore for what must be the fifteenth time since he's arrived in his office, but Draco cuts him off.

"Surely it has become painfully evident that there is no further recourse."

"The dementors—"

"—have been completely ineffectual from the _start_. They were useless when he broke out of Azkaban and they were useless when he broke _in_ to Hogwarts. If anyone in this room is stupid enough to think the Ministry of Magic is neither too useless nor too corrupt to handle this with any degree of success, I beg them speak!"

Draco spins on his heel to regard the others present. Professors Snape, Lupin, and Flitwick are all varying degrees of resigned to the truth of Draco's words.

"Headmaster," Professor Flitwick volunteers after a lapse of silence, "if I have learned anything about Mr. Malfoy in these past few years, it's that he has two traits which could never be called into question: his intelligence and his morality. I know for a fact that you have learned the same."

Professor Dumbledore doesn't answer immediately. Behind him, Fawkes gives a low, tender cry.

"What do you think, Remus?" he asks suddenly, his sharp blue eyes turning to Professor Lupin. "You've heard Mr. Malfoy's plan. I think it's fair to say that it relies heavily on his assumptions about Sirius Black's character – and you would know it better than anyone."

Professor Snape makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. Professor Lupin gives him a weary glance but otherwise doesn't react.

"Headmaster, the plan is ironclad," Professor Lupin says, his voice soft and taciturn. "It plays directly into his nature as I remember it. If Mr. Malfoy's deductions and theories are correct, I can guarantee its success."

"Of course my deductions and theories are correct," Draco says brusquely.

"The plan does have the benefit of keeping the students out of harm's way," Professor Flitwick adds. "It definitionally separates them from Black."

"And what do you think, Severus?"

Draco looks back to Professor Snape in time to see him lift his chin.

"You know my answer, Albus," he returns, but Professor Dumbledore merely raises a silvered eyebrow in response. "I think if Mr. Malfoy offers you a plan to save the school and, potentially, a life, you would have to be an idiot not to take him up on it."

Draco does his very best not to look pleased. He turns his gaze back to Professor Dumbledore and notes the small, vague smirk on his face.

"When would you recommend beginning, Mr. Malfoy?" he asks.

"Soon," Draco answers, "but not too soon. He needs a few days to regain a sense of security."

Professor Dumbledore idly flicks his wand, making the pages of his day planner flip rapidly. "Shall we say the seventeenth?"

After a pause, he nods. "The seventeenth."

"I'll warn Minerva and Pomona, then, shall I?" Professor Flitwick offers, and with a nod of dismissal from the Headmaster, he starts toward the door. With a start, Draco hurries after him.

"Professor Flitwick!"

Behind him, Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and Lupin talk of preparations in low tones, and Draco speaks quietly so as not to interrupt.

"I didn't get the chance to thank you," he says. "For taking me to the hospital wing. And for leaping in to help with Black."

Professor Flitwick gives him a sparkling smile, all bright silver eyes and dimples. "You certainly don't need to thank me for _that_, Mr. Malfoy."

"That sparking spell was damn impressive," Draco says, grinning. "It must have thrown him back five feet."

"Well, in fairness, I've had plenty of practice. I was a world champion duelist in my day, you know!"

"It shows," Draco says, and he means it.

"By the way – at the risk of being perceived as self-serving, fifty points to Ravenclaw."

Draco gives a start. "Sir?"

"For handling a catastrophe with tremendous intelligence and heroism, and for saving the poor Fat Lady and possibly many others! You put yourself in harm's way to protect your peers." He pats Draco's arm affectionately. "A rare quality, especially in a moment of crisis."

Draco can honestly say that he'd never considered his reaction heroic. He thinks that perhaps Professor Flitwick is being a bit too generous, but he doesn't say so.

"I'll see you in class, Mr. Malfoy."

"Have a good night, Professor."

Professor Flitwick departs, smiling and whistling a jaunty tune, and Draco watches him go. If the position of favorite professor hadn't been already and forevermore occupied by Professor Snape, Draco rather thinks that Professor Flitwick might take the honor.

"—still not half-convinced you didn't have something to _do_ with it," says Professor Snape behind him, and Draco turns.

"You're being unfair, Severus," Professor Lupin says softly. Draco turns in time to see his expression edged with guilt. "I would never put children in harm's way."

"Your words mean very little to me," Professor Snape hisses. "_Especially_ to me."

Professor Lupin flinches. "The past is the past, Severus."

"The past is breaking into the school and attacking our students, _Remus_."

"Everyone leaves Azkaban as a criminal," Professor Lupin says, eyes downcast as if conceding the painful truth of Professor Snape's point, "even if they didn't go in as one."

"Whatever sympathy I had for Black's dubious conviction evaporated when he fractured my godson's skull," Professor Snape snarls. "If Mr. Malfoy's plan works, you had best talk some sanity back into him, because if he so much as glances in Draco's direction, I'll put him down like the animal he has clearly become."

"I'll talk him down." Professor Lupin's voice is steady and self-assured, but his expression of apprehension betrays him.

Draco slips out of the Headmaster's office and down the spiral staircase leading into the castle proper. As he emerges, he rubs the back of his head, where he can feel the thin, rough scar underneath his hair. He traces the jagged edges of it with his fingertips, wishing that if he was going to get a scar this interesting, it could at least be somewhere visible.

"How'd it go?"

Draco turns. Harry is standing by the wall, looking nervous. Draco feels the familiar flutter in his stomach and he tries not to let on.

"How long have you been waiting?"

Harry shrugs. "Not long," he says, and Draco knows at once that he's lying. "How are the dizzy spells?"

"Gone now," Draco assures him. "Haven't had once since yesterday."

"Good," Harry says. He takes a breath, and Draco can see him gearing up for what is almost assuredly a rehearsed speech. "Good. Draco, I—"

"I know."

Harry falters, frowns. "I know you know," he says. "You know most everything." Draco smirks. "Still, I think it's important that I say it anyway."

"Harry—"

"I'm sorry," he says. "God, Draco – I'm so sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I don't even know why I said it. I was angry at the situation and I took it out on you and—"

"Harry, it's all right."

"It's _not_ all right," he insists, stepping forward. "I don't want you to think for a second that you're anything less than the best friend I've ever had."

At some point, the fluttering had turned into a dreadful churning, and Draco isn't sure if he wants to bury his face in his hands and run away or grab Harry by the front of his robes and kiss him and _oh, Merlin, he wants to kiss Harry_. This is not good.

Or maybe it's wonderful. How the fuck should he know? To say this is new territory would be an egregious understatement.

He takes a slow breath.

"I'm not going to pretend like it didn't hurt," Draco says. "But it hurt because there was some truth to it – no, Harry, there _was_, you _know_ there was. I'm not… I'm not _good_ at – at _this_. At being a friend. I'm trying to learn, but sometimes…"

"I think you're brilliant at it," says Harry quietly. "In all the ways that matter, anyhow."

Draco manages a smile, though it feels weak. Harry returns it with more strength and it does strange and wonderful things to Draco's heart.

"You make me want to be even better," Draco says, realizing that he really is in _so_ much trouble.


	25. 17 November, 1993

_Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth._  
Marcus Aurelius

* * *

The little, black rubber ball _smacks_ against the window and rattles the glass each time Draco throws it. Draco knows that the glass is quite fragile and that perhaps he should stop, but he needs something – desperately – to keep his hands occupied. The waiting is unbearable.

_Smack,_ goes the ball. Draco stares at the little hut on the far side of the window. Only a few hours ago, it had been a bustle of activity, but now it was silent and unmoving against the sunset-colored skyline. _Smack_. He wishes it would move, do something, anything. Who does Sirius Black think he is, keeping them waiting like this? _Smack_. How long can one be expected to wait for something so important?

"So explain it once more," Harry says, leaning against the wall beside him.

Draco catches the ball and looks over at him. "Third time's the charm?"

"In my defense, it's a damn convoluted plan."

"It really isn't," Draco assures him. "All things considered, it's quite simple."

"You've rounded up all the pets in the school," Harry says, gesturing with one hand to the window. "And now you're not even _doing_ anything with them."

"We don't need to," Draco says. "Not yet, anyway." _Smack_.

"Why not? You told Professor Dumbledore you thought Sirius Black was posing as a pet!"

"No, I told Professor Dumbledore I wanted everyone to _think_ I thought Sirius Black was posing as a pet," he says. "I helped spread the rumor myself. It's all anyone's been talking about."

Harry frowns. "I don't…"

"Look, Sirius Black came here for revenge," Draco explains. "I couldn't tell you for what, exactly – at a guess, something to do with his incarceration – but I _can_ tell you that revenge is a very personal crime, so he's obviously after someone he knows." _Smack_.

Harry frowns. "Like me."

"No, not like you. You were just a infant, like everyone else in the Gryffindor Tower. Even the seventh-years were still children when Sirius Black was a free man. It's hard to want screaming, bloody vengeance on someone in nappies, wouldn't you agree?"

Harry seems to concede the point, but still seems confused.

"So… so what, then? He's got to be after someone in the Gryffindor Tower, but it can't be anyone in the Gryffindor Tower?"

"Exactly," Draco says. _Smack_. Harry's confusion doesn't clear. "It's got to be someone that _no one knows_ is in the Gryffindor Tower. It's got to be someone who's _hiding_ in the Gryffindor Tower. And I'd be willing to bet that they're also an unregistered animagus." _Smack_.

It takes Harry a moment, but when it hits, his eyes widen. "You think the _one he's after_ is posing as a pet!"

Draco allows himself a grin. _Smack_.

"That's…" Harry doesn't seem to know what _that's_.

"So I spread the rumor that I remember seeing him shift into an animagus form, but that I can't remember what animal it is. Head trauma. And in wild overreaction, the Headmaster, in conjunction with Ministry officials, quarantine all the pets in the school to make sure none of them are the escaped convict."

"And you lure Black right into it," Harry finishes. "Because whoever he's after will be in that quarantine, and you get both of them at once. That – Draco, that's _brilliant_."

"I know," Draco says. _Smack_.

Harry stares at him wonderingly. "You are incredible," he says, and the reverence in his voice makes Draco suddenly feel a bit fluttery. "Every time I think you've stopped surprising me…"

Draco swallows, though his mouth is dry. He tries not to meet Harry's eyes because he's not sure what he'd do if he did.

"Draco," says a familiar voice suddenly, "Harry."

Relieved at the interruption, because all of these _feelings_ Harry's evoking now are far more than Draco knows how to handle, he looks up. Professor Snape is standing in the threshold, his dark hair tousled with wind and his dark eyes unusually bright.

"We caught him."

"Oh!" Draco pockets the rubber ball. "He's restrained?"

"And disarmed," Professor Snape says. "The headmaster has cleared you to interrogate him, provided you're not alone with him."

"Don't need to be alone with him," Draco says. He grabs his cloak from the floor and throws it on. "Let's go."

They follow him outside. It's a ramshackle little thing, weathered and dilapidated, about a hundred yards away from the castle. The gardening tools usually stored within are in large crates stacked outside, and the single window by its door is lit brilliant gold.

Draco, Harry, and Professor Snape duck through the half-broken door and inside. Cages are stacked high against the walls, and the whole room is full of meowing, hooting, skittering, croaking – and in the far corner, Sirius Black is magically shackled to the wall, flanked by Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, Lupin, and Sprout. The expression on his face is absolutely murderous.

"Cheers," Draco says as he fingers the rubber ball in his pocket, hoping to defuse the tension.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Dumbledore says. "I would make introductions, but as I understand it, you've already met."

"I've had the displeasure, yes."

"You're no ray of sunshine, yourself, smartass," Sirius snarls.

"Watch your mouth, Black," Professor Snape says sharply.

"Sirius," Professor Lupin says, more gently, but with an obvious weariness, "being combative will only make the situation worse."

"Remus, you bastard, you've got me in chains. You want me to smile about it?"

"Sirius—" he begins, sighing.

"You've been in chains for most of your adult life," Professor Snape interjects, "surely a few more hours won't kill you."

"_Fuck you,_ Snivellus."

"Don't talk to Professor Snape like that!" Harry says suddenly, moving out from behind Draco.

As Draco suspected he would, Harry's presence abruptly changes Sirius's disposition. The anger falls from his face like water off glass, and he takes in a breath.

"Harry," he whispers.

"He's twice the man _you'll_ ever be," he continues.

"Harry," Professor Snape says, tone inscrutable.

"That—" The sentence falls off, and he frowns. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know he never attacked a thirteen-year-old."

"He fought for the man who killed your parents," Sirius says, suddenly angry, "did you know that?"

"Of course I do," Harry scoffs. "And I know he's not that person anymore."

"Oh, _isn't_ he."

"Enough!" Professor McGonagall says suddenly, and when Professor McGonagall calls for silence, Draco has learned, the earth stops spinning lest it makes too much noise. "This is _not_ relevant."

Professor Snape is staring down at Harry in silence. After a moment, he reaches out and gently strokes a hand across Harry's hair. He looks up at him and smiles, and the expression seems to nearly undo Professor Snape where he stands.

Draco clears his throat. "So now that we've got all the formalities out of the way," he says blithely, "let's get back to the matter at hand. The person you're after is in this room. Point them out."

Sirius narrows his eyes at Draco. The tension from the conversation hasn't left him, but it seems to have settled enough to make him willing to cooperate.

"A rat," Sirius says, slowly. "I saw his picture on the cover of the _Prophet_, on the shoulder of one of the Weasley boys."

"Scabbers?" Harry says suddenly, taken aback. "You're looking for Scabbers?"

"I thought the bastard was _dead_," Sirius snarls. "When I saw him there – knowing he was alive while James and Lily…"

Lupin looks stricken, Draco notices, and faintly nauseous. "That's not…" he begins, voice wan, but he loses the sentence. "No. He's dead. Peter – that's not—"

"I know," Sirius says. "I know, Remus."

The explanation hits him all at once. "He's the one that betrayed James and Lily Potter to the Dark Lord," Draco says. "He set you up and faked his own murder."

"I would have been able to prove it at the trial," Sirius says through his teeth. "If I'd been _given_ one."

"You'll be given one this time around," Professor Lupin vows. "Headmaster Dumbledore will be sure of it. So will I."

Professor Dumbledore inclines his head. "A corrupt government can be corrupted in either direction if the right strings are pulled by the right people," he says. "At least this time around, you have the testimony of several respected professors – and of course – Severus?"

With a scowl, Professor Snape moves forward, reaching into the inner pocket of his robe and producing a small vial full of clear liquid.

Sirius stares at it – and him – like he's just lowered the moon. "Veritaserum," he says.

"If you ask to be questioned under it, they can't legally refuse you," Professor Snape says, bending down to slide the little bottle into Sirius's pocket.

Sirius doesn't seem to know what to say, though his mouth is open as if he wants to speak.

"You're welcome," Professor Snape snarls.

"Why…"

"Because I've moved on," he answers curtly, straightening and folding his hands behind his back. "But if you fracture my godson's skull again, all bets are off."

Sirius swallows, though not from nervousness. He stares up at Professor Snape with astonishment, gratitude, wonder – all of it far beyond verbal expression.

"Well!" Draco claps his hands. "Shall we get that rat? Harry, you know what he looks like, right?"

They spend a few minutes going through the stacks of rats in their cages until Harry finds Scabbers, tucked away in an unremarkable corner. Draco lifts the cage and studies it – a plain-looking specimen, if a bit ragged and ugly.

"Minerva," says Professor Dumbledore, "transfiguration is your area of expertise. Would you care for the honors?"

One simple spell and a very loud argument later, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew are escorted outside and into the custody of the waiting dementors. Professor Dumbledore insists on going with them back to the Ministry of Magic, _just to be sure_, he tells them.


	26. 5 June, 1994

_my blood approves,  
and kisses are a far better fate  
than wisdom_  
E. E. Cummings

* * *

"He sent me a letter," Harry says once they're a reasonable distance away from Honeyduke's and anyone who might overhear. Draco nearly asks who he's talking about before he works it out.

"Sirius?"

Harry nods. "He used Professor Snape's veritaserum at his trial and they had to release him," he says. "He seems like he wants…"

Draco raises an eyebrow, taking a bite out of his Sugar Quill and remaining silent.

"It seems like he wants to bond or something," Harry finishes, a bit lamely. "Apparently, he's legally my godfather."

"Do you _want_ to 'bond' with him?" Draco asks, hoping that he sounds neutral.

"I don't know. No. Not really. He strikes me as kind of a prig."

Draco shrugs. "In fairness, you caught him at a _really_ bad time."

"I guess."

"I'm sure he feels some compulsion to be in your life," Draco says. "Your father was his best friend. Maybe he sort of wants to… you know."

Harry gives him a quizzical look. "Wants to what?"

Draco makes a dismissive hand gesture. "Take up a sort of paternal role. I don't know. He _is_ your godfather. Maybe he feels responsible for taking care of you."

His reaction isn't immediate. Harry lifts his head and stares up at the sky – clear and vibrant blue, bright with sunlight, crisp and fragrant with the scent of nearing summer. Hogsmeade – and, really, all the Scottish countryside – is beautiful this time of year.

"I think I prefer Professor Snape," he says after a lengthy pause.

"Well, obviously," Draco returns. "No contest between them, really."

Harry grins. "So have you had a good birthday?"

"Yes, thanks for asking," he answers with a mirroring grin.

There's a moment of silence as they meander back toward the train station.

"I got you a birthday present," Harry blurts out quite suddenly, shortly before his face contorts into a look of pain, like he hadn't meant to say that.

Draco's brow knits. "Uh," he says, "okay." He wonders why he looks so nervous.

"I…"

They slow to a stop. Harry reaches into his messenger bag and pulls it out. It's wrapped with glossy silver paper and tied with a blue bow. It's about the size of a paperback novel, and Draco can tell by the wear of the wrappings that it's been fussed with and pawed at for months, though it still looks nice enough.

"I mean, I bought it originally for your Christmas present, but I didn't…"

Draco's not sure where Harry's going with this explanation, but the look of nervousness on his face is doing uncomfortable, fluttery things to Draco's stomach. It's been months since Draco's finally been able to name exactly what he feels for Harry, though he remains painfully unsure of what to do about it. Thus far his tactics have included "pretend like you don't want to kiss your best friend." It's worked, more or less.

"Here."

He hands Draco the present. Draco finishes off his Sugar Quill before he takes it.

When he pulls off the ribbon and lifts the lid, he is staring at a butterfly.

But no – it's not a butterfly, not quite. It certainly _looks_ like a butterfly – like a large, beautiful monarch butterfly with delicate gossamer wings – but upon closer inspection, Draco can see that it's just a facsimile of one, sitting neatly on a bed of silk.

"It's a magical tattoo," Harry says. "They come on and off, apparently. And they move some when you touch them. Look."

Harry reaches out and draws a finger across one of the butterfly's wings. It gives a strange, two-dimensional flutter, and lifts a few inches off its box. Draco thinks of Valentine's Day last year, of the card full of butterflies, and his stomach knots.

"Harry," Draco whispers, awestruck. Draco knows that only the very expensive, high-end tattoos move and can be taken off. Coupled with the near-photorealistic artistry, Draco cannot imagine how much this cost.

"I know it might be a bit…" Harry's mouth twists. "But I was thinking of your thing about chaos."

"The butterfly effect," Draco supplies.

"Yeah. I thought it might be a nice symbol."

Draco laughs, though it's quite breathy. "The butterfly isn't a symbol of chaos," he says.

"No?"

"No, Harry, it's a symbol of—"

Draco looks up at him, and he has to physically bite his tongue to keep himself from finishing the sentence.

_You,_ Draco wants to say but doesn't. _It's a symbol of you, of the way you feel about me, of the way I feel about you._

Harry is staring at him, looking just as nervous as Draco feels.

There's a slight fluttering feeling on his wrist and Draco looks back down. The butterfly has melted onto the skin of his forearm and is flying up towards his shoulder. Draco watches as it disappears beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, then reappears beneath his collar, fluttering its wings and settling down near his sternum.

"It's beautiful," Draco says, because it is, and because he feels like his heart is going to rip itself to pieces in his chest. He looks at Harry, and Harry is looking back at him.

"Draco," Harry begins, "I…"

Draco swallows. Harry is closer than he was a moment ago. And those are his fingertips he feels ghosting across Draco's palm. And that's his breath on Draco's mouth.

And he is going to kiss him, Draco suddenly realizes.

His eyes are half-shut when— "Oy, Draco! Potter!"

Draco's heart nearly leaps straight out of his throat. He whirls around and sees Anthony Goldstein – another Ravenclaw, one of Draco's friendlier acquaintances – standing a few yards away and waving.

"Train's leaving!" he calls.

"We," Draco stammers, "we should – the – th-the train—"

"Yeah," Harry says. He sounds breathless. "I mean – yes. Come on."

They start toward the Hogsmeade station. Draco can feel the butterfly fluttering on his chest and the ghost of the nearly-kiss on his mouth.


	27. 31 July, 1994

_A friend loves you for your intelligence, a mistress for your charm, but your family's love is unreasoning._  
André Maurois

* * *

When Harry returns through the kitchen door, his hair is windswept and he smells like summer morning, and Draco is at once overcome with the desire to run his hands through his hair and kiss his wind-stung face and _stop it, Draco, stop it_.

"Good flight?" Draco asks, hoping his voice is even.

"Brilliant," he answers, leaning his Firebolt against the kitchen wall and sinking into the chair across from him. "Who'd have thought Manchester could be so damn gorgeous?"

"There's beauty everywhere if you know how to see it."

Harry's green eyes seem to sparkle. It makes Draco just a little bit dizzy.

"Isn't there just," he says.

Draco clears his throat and looks back down at the book he'd been reading.

"What's all this?" Harry asks, gesturing to the stacks of medical books.

"New pet project. Slightly insane, never-been-tested, wildly dangerous."

"So standard fare for your sort of pet project, then," Harry says.

"If you're referring to the incident with the teapot rocket," Draco returns, "I would like to point out that it did _work_."

"You could have just let Professor Snape or Dumbledore destroy it," Harry reminds him, grinning in a way that is uncomfortably close to completely irresistible. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I recall them _offering_—"

"By then I was already done with the blueprints. What was I supposed to do, _not_ finish building a rocket to the sun?"

"So the lesson here is that reckless and irresponsible science is fine so long as it's finished."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

Harry grins again. "Someone should have warned me before I became your friend."

Oh, Merlin, that grin. Draco is sure that grin will be the death of him.

Professor Snape enters before Draco has a chance to respond, and puts an affectionate hand on Harry's head as he crosses to the stove to put the kettle on.

"Morning flight?" he guesses.

"It was brilliant."

"Good. Tea?"

"If you're putting it on."

The bag of loose tea flies out of the cupboard and lands next to Professor Snape on the counter as he fusses with an aging teapot and mugs.

"So you two have been _unusually_ quiet about the fact that it's my birthday."

"Have we?" Professor Snape says, sounding distracted.

"A sort of conspiratorial silence, if I were to hazard a guess."

"I'm offended at the implication," Draco says.

"If you _must_ know," says Professor Snape, "we purchased your gift several – oh, honestly, Draco, medical textbooks off the table."

"Science doesn't stop for tea, Professor."

"It does in England. Textbooks off the table."

Draco sighs, casts a few bookmark charms, and levitates them into a neat stack on the counter. With the table now clear, Professor Snape sets down the mugs and sugar bowl, picking up where he'd left off in his explanation:

"We purchased your gift several months ago. We'd planned on surprising you with it."

"I hate surprises," Harry says, with a smile that's only slightly eager.

Professor Snape and Draco share a brief look. Draco shrugs. Professor Snape reaches into the inner pocket of his robes and produces an envelope, which he hands to Harry.

"Happy birthday," he says before turning back to the tea.

Harry opens the envelope and the card tucked inside. The tickets fall out, and Harry makes a small sound of surprise. He makes another sound of surprise – much louder and in a slightly higher octave – when he sees the tickets.

"_Are you kidding me._"

"I think he might like it," Draco observes.

"_The Quidditch World Cup?_"

"Draco's father has a standing invitation to all World Cup games," Professor Snape explains. "He doesn't ever attend, however."

"But," Draco interjects, "as his heir, I'm allowed to take up the offer."

"Oh, my God."

"It's a good match-up this year," Professor Snape remarks. "I'm very interested to see how Viktor Krum plays."

"I didn't know you even liked Quidditch!" Harry says to Professor Snape. "And Draco – I know you _hate_ it, I wouldn't ask—"

"I don't hate Quidditch," Draco says. "I nothing Quidditch. I have no compunctions in putting up with it for a few hours for my best friend's birthday." He pauses, then adds, "Though I may need the rules explained to me."

"And I _played_ Quidditch, thank you very much, for four years."

"You – really? I had no idea! Which position?"

"Slytherin chaser, fourth through seventh years."

"Are chasers the ones with the sticks?" Draco asks as Professor Snape returns to the table and pours the tea. "Which is the one with the stick?"

"This is amazing," Harry says, beaming, sounding slightly breathless. "You two are amazing. Thank you so much."

Professor Snape offers one of his rare, uncharacteristic smiles, and he pushes a mug of tea into Harry's hands. "Happy birthday," he says.

Harry smiles like it's the best day of his life, and Draco suddenly realizes that his gorgeous and irresistible grin is nothing next to his smile.


	28. 25 August, 1994

_Follow thy drum;  
With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules;  
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel;  
Then what should war be?_  
William Shakespeare

* * *

"Here's what I don't get, though," Draco says, "why do they have seekers?"

Harry frowns and looks at him askance. "What do you mean?"

"In the general structure of the game – what's the point of them? Their role doesn't seem to make a lot of sense."

"I don't follow." Harry finishes off his popcorn and throws the emptied bucket into the nearby bin. They're at the tail end of the slow-moving flood making its way out of the stadium, in no hurry and under no illusion that they'll get out of the anti-Apparation zone anytime soon.

"I understand the idea of chasers, of course," he says, "they score the points. Keepers stop points from being scored. And beaters both defend their teammates from and attack opposing teammates with the bludgers. But then there's _seekers_. They don't really _do_ anything, except hover around waiting for this one little thing that almost assures an instantaneous victory. The role doesn't make any sense."

"That's how teams win," Harry says. "The game ends when the seeker catches the snitch."

"But it's a disproportionate amount of scoring power! It throws the entire game out of balance, and it makes all the work the other players do virtually pointless!"

Harry frowns, and Professor Snape says, "I rather think you've wounded his pride as a seeker."

"The game would make _so_ much more sense if they got rid of that rubbish rule about the snitch being worth 150 points," Draco continues heedlessly. "It would speed up the game, for a start, and put more pressure on the seekers to catch the snitch while their team is ahead and offer incentive to distract the opposing seeker while their team is behind."

"That—" Harry begins, but he can't seem to come up with a refutation.

"You know what? I bet the entire role of the seeker came about because the poor bastard who invented the game had an obnoxious kid brother who kept whining about wanting to play with him," Draco says. "And eventually, he just said, 'Okay, look, your job is to stay out of the way and look for this tiny golden ball. No, no, it's _totally_ an important role – because, uh, if you catch it, you win the game!'"

"You're sort of ruining this for me, Draco," Harry says.

"It's not _my_ fault the game has logical inconsistencies."

"Quidditch, Draco, like most things in the wizarding world," Professor Snape says, "is the result of atrophied tradition. It may have been logical and useful part of the game at some point, but it was so long ago that no one remembers why or cares to change it."

"I think you may have just summed up the vast majority of the problems with magical society and government," Draco tells him with a grin. "Atrophied tradition. I quite like that term."

"It's part of a much larger problem, of course," he continues, breathing in night air as they finally, finally, make it out of the crowded, claustrophobic stadium and into the moor. "Wizard kind has a storied history of—"

His words abruptly cut short, and Professor Snape seizes as if struck by a sudden and terrible pain. Draco takes in a breath and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Professor?"

One of Professor Snape's hands reaches out and grabs at the opposite arm and he doubles forward. Draco puts it together more quickly than he should like.

"What's wrong? Professor Snape?" Harry grips his other shoulder. "Are you – Draco, should we find a healer—?"

"He doesn't need a healer," Draco says.

There's a sudden scream – then another, and another. They're coming from the far side of the forest surrounding the arena, but Draco doesn't look toward their source – he looks up at the sky, instead, and his heart drops into his stomach.

"What…" Harry breathes.

There in the sky, hovering like a spectre of death, is the Dark Mark, twisting and writhing against a starry backdrop. The screams are becoming louder, more frequent.

"Death Eaters." The word rips from Professor Snape's throat with all the ease of sandpaper. "They're close. They're killing."

"We have to go," Draco says. His gut is tightening with fear, and despite his best efforts, he can't look away from the terrible sigil in the sky.

"I – we can't," Harry says. "Draco, we have to help them—"

"There's nothing we can do."

"We can go in there and fight!"

Draco can hardly believe his ears. He rips his eyes away from the Dark Mark and looks to Harry to make sure he heard him right. But Harry's face is set and his green eyes are blazing. He did not mishear.

"We're _fourteen_, Harry. We're hardly _battle-ready_."

"I'm recklessly stupid, you're outrageously clever – between the two of us, we should be fine, right? There are people in there who need help!"

Draco's fists tighten at his sides. "It's not that _simple_."

"It _is_ that simple!" Harry insists.

"_Enough!_" Professor Snape says suddenly, sharply, and they both turn toward him. He's still gripping his arm, hunched slightly with pain, but he's pulling himself upright. "_Neither_ of you are going anywhere near them. _I_ will go in and start evacuating the campgrounds, _you_ two go back to Spinner's End and alert the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Professor—" Draco says, his throat almost too tight with fear to let the word pass.

"_Now,_" he says, ripping his wand from his sleeve. "I will not put you in harm's way!"

Harry's shoulders set. "Professor," he says, "I appreciate the sentiment, but look at the sky. Do you honestly think you can keep _protecting_ us?"

Professor Snape stares down at him, his gaze intense, his hand clasped so tightly around his wand that he can see it trembling.

"I will never stop protecting you," he whispers. "Now go."

"Professor—!" Harry protests.

"_Go!_"

Draco swallows a hard lump in his throat and stuffs a hand into his pocket, producing the emergency portkey to Spinner's end, a small brass key in a terrycloth sack. With his other hand, he reaches out and grabs Harry by the elbow.

"I will not forgive you if you get yourself killed," Draco says to Professor Snape, and it would be a very dark joke if it weren't for the fact that he is deadly serious.

"Then I suppose I'll have to survive," Professor Snape returns, with equal solemnity. "Go."

"Professor—" Harry says again, but Draco pulls out the portkey and warps away with him.


	29. 26 August, 1994

_Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is an absurd one._  
Voltaire

* * *

Draco can no longer throw the black rubber ball with any accuracy because his hands refuse to stop trembling. One slight shift in rotational force and all precision is lost. When it hits the wall and flies off to the right to roll under an end-table, Draco forgoes trying to get it back and instead buries his face in his hands. He can't focus. He can't _think_. What is the point of him if he can't _think?_

"We shouldn't have left," Harry says from the other side of the sitting room, where he's been pacing for the last several hours.

"Shut up," Draco tells him, but there's no venom in his voice.

"We should have stayed," Harry says. "We should have gone with him."

"No, we shouldn't have."

"He could be dead."

Draco releases a breath and thoroughly banishes the thought. He does not like to have the idea of death near any thought pertaining to Professor Snape.

"He is a supremely competent wizard," Draco says, even though he knows that fact doesn't have as much to do with whether or not he's dead as it should.

Harry doesn't respond, and Draco turns his bleary eyes toward the grandfather clock ticking softly in the corner of the room. Half-one. It's been nearly three hours. This is taking too long.

"So is that it?" Harry asks. "They're back? _He's_ back? My dreams, and now—"

"We don't know that. Not for sure. His… his supporters are rallying, but if he was really back, I'm sure we'd know. He'd make it known."

"We can't be sure of anything," Harry says softly. "Isn't that the nature of a chaotic universe?"

Draco falls face-first onto the leather loveseat. He can't believe Harry's using chaos against him in an argument.

"We need to be ready for this, Draco."

Draco doesn't say anything.

"We can't be protected forever. _I_ can't be protected forever. There's a war coming. And if the past is any indication, I'm going to end up in the middle of it. And if I will, so will you. So will everyone around me."

Draco can feel the butterfly twisting its way down his forearm before landing near his wrist.

There's a rustle of fabric and the sound of soft footsteps. Harry is kneeling down on the floor next to him when Draco lifts his head to look. He seems resigned, somehow, but not unhappy. His too-green eyes are steady with purpose.

"I'm not frightened," Harry tells him.

"You should be," Draco says, rolling over, propping himself up on his elbow.

"I should be," he agrees, "but I'm not. I have Professor Snape. I have you."

Draco almost says _you have no idea how much you have me_ but decides against it. Instead, he says, "The universe ought to be ashamed of itself for being so dreadfully unkind to you."

Harry smiles lopsidedly and all Draco wants to do is taste it and _stop it, Draco, stop it_. "It's not so bad," he says. "Besides, I never had any delusions that life would be fair."

"It's the human condition to struggle for justice and order in a universe that provides neither," Draco says, and he's speaking softly, because Harry is so close that Draco can smell cedar and soap.

"I thought you preferred chaos," Harry says, also softly, and gooseflesh rises across Draco's skin where Harry's breath whispers. Draco can feel his heart beating faster. Harry is so very close and his hand shifts, fingertips brushing Draco's, and that impossibly light touch sets his skin afire.

"Prefer?" It's getting a little hard to focus, let alone put words into coherent sentences. "I don't know if prefer is the right word. I… I _appreciate_ chaos. Chaos protects me."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're to young to be a nihilist?"

Draco is dizzy and his heart is pounding. He's cold despite the close heat of the sitting room, shivering, aching. _Kiss me,_ Draco wants to say, but doesn't, _because I'm either in mad for you or about to have a heart attack._

Harry's fingers are twining into Draco's and he's leaning forward those last few inches when there's a sudden rush from the hearth and they both whirl around.

"Professor Snape!"

It is, perhaps, the only thing in Draco's world at that moment more vital than kissing Harry, and they both scramble to their feet and hurry to his side.

He is battered and weary, singed in places, but standing with his usual poise.

"What happened?" Harry asks.

"How many Death Eaters were there? Did you see?"

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Were the aurors able to round them all up?"

"Boys," says Professor Snape wearily.

"You're not injured, are you?" Harry asks, suddenly sounding alarmed, looking him over.

"I'll put on some tea," Draco says, hurrying toward the kitchen.

"Herbal or decaf, for Merlin's sake," Professor Snape calls after him.

"Come on, Professor, you look knackered," he can hear Harry say as Draco starts fussing with the kettle, "sit down."

By the time Draco has the kettle on and has filled an infuser with a nice Darjeeling white, Professor Snape is sitting down at the table while Harry interrogates him incessantly about whether or not he's in pain or if they should Floo for a mediwizard.

"I'm fine," he says, loud enough to get Harry to stop talking. "I promise you I am fine."

Harry frowns and doesn't seem satisfied. He sinks into the chair across from him. "What happened? It was definitely an attack?"

"It became more of a riot, but yes, it was a deliberate attack by a band of Death Eaters."

"Which ones?" Draco asks, hoping he sounds casual.

Professor Snape glances at him, seeing right through it. "They were masked," he says, then adds: "I didn't see him."

Draco stares down at his feet.

"See who?" Harry asks.

"My father," Draco answers.

Harry gives a slight start, then looks down, as though feeling guilty for asking.

"I couldn't be sure who was there," Professor Snape says, "but I'm more concerned with the implications of the fact that it happened at all."

"He can't be giving orders yet, can he?" Draco asks.

"Not directly, no. I think it likely he has a middleman."

"Well, his last middleman was pretty shit," Harry remarks.

"And he won't make that mistake twice," says Draco gravely. "He's out of his mind, but he is absolutely not stupid. Quite the opposite." Draco thinks back to the diary, the fraction of the Dark Lord's conscious mind that speculated with him on quantum superposition.

"He's planning something," Professor Snape says. "He's gearing up for it."

"To strike at something like the Quidditch World Cup is loud," Draco says. "This was psychological, not preparatory. It doesn't tell us anything about what his endgame is."

"If we knew who he was acting through, we might be able to narrow things down," says Professor Snape as he pushes a hand through his hair, "but there were a lot of Death Eaters who avoided conviction, and a lot of them were smart."

The kettle whistles and Draco turns to tend it.

"So, to summarize," Harry says, "we know he has a middleman, but we don't know who. We know he's up to something, but we don't know what it is. We have no timeframe, and any speculation would be about as effective as guessing."

"Pretty much," Draco says as he sets the teapot down on the table and sits.

"Well, cheers to having our shit together."

Professor Snape pours the tea without responding.


	30. 1 September, 1994

_O love, O fire! once he drew  
With one long kiss my whole soul through  
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew._  
Alfred Lord Tennyson

* * *

"You're not listening, are you?"

Draco's eyes refocus and he turns away from the window.

"No," he admits. "Sorry."

Harry frowns, though he doesn't seem upset – he looks more concerned than anything. "You've been so quiet lately," he says.

"Lot on my mind," Draco says dismissively, looking back out the window. The sun is sinking behind the hills as they ripple past, washing the Scottish countryside with a golden-orange light.

"You always have a lot on your mind," Harry says. "That's never shut you up before."

Draco leans his head against the compartment window without responding.

"So I gather you're not excited about the Triwizard Tournament?"

It takes Draco a moment to go back through the conversation to which he'd only been half paying attention.

"I don't know," Draco says after a moment. "I suppose. I mean, it's bound to at least be interesting."

"I'm looking forward to it," Harry says, with an infectious brightness in his voice. "It sounds brilliant. Though I am slightly concerned – apparently they discontinued it because of some kind of massacre."

"That was hundreds of years ago," Draco assures him. "I'm sure it will be much less deadly this time around."

"Don't you mean it _won't_ be deadly?"

"Oh, no, I'm sure it will be at least a little deadly. Wouldn't be the Triwizard Tournament if it weren't deadly."

"Quidditch and its bludgers, chess pieces that kill each other, Exploding Snap cards that literally explode, and now Triwizard Tournaments that kill," Harry says. "What is it about magical society and its obsession with bloodsport?"

"High stakes make it more interesting," Draco answers, and he arches off his seat in a long, slow, languid stretch, head thrown back and arms stretched toward the ceiling. When he collapses back down, it's in time to see Harry staring at him, red-faced and looking a bit ruffled.

"All right?"

"What." It doesn't quite sound like a question. Harry clears his throat and tries again. "I mean – what? No. Fine."

Draco huffs a sigh and looks back out the window. He draws his knees up to his chest. He wants to sink back into his own thoughts – and yet, at the same time, he very much does not. His thoughts are dark and terrible, but the world around him seems to be darkening just as swiftly, becoming just as terrible.

A moment of silence passes. "Are you sure you're all right?" Harry asks.

Draco hesitates. "I'm frightened," he says.

"Is that all?"

Draco looks back at Harry, who's smiling. Draco melts, but only slightly, softening around the edges like warmed chocolate.

"It's okay to be frightened," Harry says.

"Not for me," Draco returns. "I'm stupid when I'm frightened."

"You're never stupid."

The butterfly, which had settled on his thigh, travels up his hip and onto his stomach in soft fluttering movements. Draco hugs his legs a bit closer to his chest.

"I am, though," Draco insists, "when I'm scared. It's a problem. My mind shuts down and I can't think. What's the point of me if I'm stupid?"

Harry frowns. "Don't say that. There's more to you than your brain."

"But it is rather my most useful attribute," Draco says. "And things the way they are, I need to stay sharp. I can't afford to be frightened because I can't afford to be stupid. It could get me killed. It could get _you_ killed."

"Draco…"

"And I can't talk myself out of this fear," he continues, screwing his eyes shut. "I can see it all like a map in my head, and the odds are terrifying. Everything that could be lost, both in war and in defeat—"

"Draco."

There's a hand on his skin, near the junction between his neck and shoulder, and Draco opens his eyes and looks across at him, with his heart suddenly in his throat and all his words forgotten.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Harry says. "And I have a sneaking suspicion that you won't let anything happen to me. So between the two of us, we should be immortal."

Harry's thumb is on his jaw, sweeping in a slow, broad arc toward his lower lip. It takes every ounce of Draco's willpower to suppress a shiver.

"That's tautological," Draco says. Or maybe it's cyclical. Draco isn't sure. Apparently he's just as stupid when he wants to kiss Harry as he is when he's frightened. It might end up being a problem, since Draco spends most of his time wanting to kiss Harry these days.

His thumb is on Draco's lip, and Draco hopes Harry doesn't notice the way he leans reactively into the touch. He feels the now-familiar closeness, the heat of his body nearing to Draco's, the accelerating thump of his heartbeat in his throat. There are three unbearable inches between them, three inches and fifty miles, and it feels like stars will burn up and galaxies will rip themselves apart before they finish that mutual movement toward each other, steadily but infinitely like Xeno's paradox, and Draco's eyes fall half-shut, and there's the _barest brush_ of heat on Draco's mouth as all the infinities collapse upon each other—

The compartment door opens with a clatter and they both spring backward. Draco smacks his shoulder into the wall and bites back a yelp of pain.

"Oy," says Anthony Goldstein, the absolutely hateful kiss-preventing bastard who is 0 for 2, "big Exploding Snap tournament going on between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff down two train cars. Draco, can't you count cards?"

Draco wants to yell at him for having the worst timing in the world, but he doesn't. Instead he says, "What?"

"Come on, mate," he says, "your house needs you."

"Right. I mean – yes. Okay."

He looks at Harry, who is straightening his tie.

"Right," Draco says again.


	31. 26 September, 1994

_Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from indomitable will._  
Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

"Hey."

Harry knocks into Draco's shoulder lightly, and when Draco looks back, Harry is grinning at him in that very particular way that makes Draco want to tangle his fingers in his hair and kiss him breathless and _stop it, Draco, for Merlin's sake_.

"Hi," he says, with a returned smile. Thursdays were double Defense Against the Dark Arts with Gryffindor, and it was as a consequence Draco's new favorite class. In general, most of the curriculum felt sort of useless, but at least when he had doubles with Gryffindor he had someone to talk to and pretend to not stare at.

"We're still doing Unforgivables, aren't we?" Harry asks.

"I think so." Draco recalls hearing Professor Moody say something about the Imperius curse last week, though he had only been paying half-attention.

"I quite like Moody," Harry says as they round the corner leading to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. "Shame about Lupin, though."

It had been a rather well-timed act of legislation that forbade werewolves from Ministry employ, and Draco is not entirely convinced that it was a coincidence, but he had never said so. Truth without evidence is as good as a lie.

But he doesn't disagree with Harry's assessment. All things considered, he _does_ like Moody. Sure, the man is borderline-paranoid and probably out of his mind, but if that was any sort of reason not to like someone, Draco would never have gotten as close to Professor Snape as he had. It had taken him a while to get used to the random shouting and loud calls for "CONSTANT VIGILANCE," however.

Class had nearly started by the time they make it to their seats. Professor Moody, dark and strange and gnarled, comes shuffling up the aisle made by the two columns of desks.

"The Imperius curse," he begins without preamble, "is arguably the worst of the three Unforgivables. Death is brief and pain may be overcome, but _control_…"

He trails off, letting the unspoken words send shivers through the students.

"It's a bloody damn difficult spell to cast, and nearly impossible to shake off," he continues, coming to a stop beside the podium at the front of the classroom. "And that's exactly why we're going to practice it today."

"But – but you said it's illegal, Professor," says a Gryffindor behind Draco, "You said – to use it against another human was—"

"Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like. If you'd rather learn the hard way – when someone's putting it on you so they can control you completely – fine by me. You're excused. Off you go."

The Gryffindor girl mutters something bashfully and Draco takes a moment to consider if he likes or hates Professor Moody's flair for the dramatic.

"The key to shaking off an Imperius curse is primarily in mental fortitude. Force of will. And, to a certain extent, cognizance – intellectual clarity and self-awareness. There have been some studies showing that those of high intelligence have less difficulty resisting an Imperius curse…"

Moody's magical eye loops upward toward the ceiling before landing squarely on Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy."

Draco straightens in his seat.

"Rumor has it that you're a match for anyone in this castle. A certifiable genius."

"I dislike the term, Professor," Draco says.

"Do you, indeed? Why's that?"

Draco hesitates. "Because, as a category, 'genius' implies the existence of 'not genius,'" he says. "It's stratifying. Just another unnecessary division that creates an _other_."

Harry is looking at him strangely. Granted, everyone in the room is looking at him strangely, but he feels Harry's eyes most of all.

Professor Moody's face is tugged into a peculiar, lopsided smirk.

"An experiment!" he says loudly, making several students who are still not used to his random bouts of shouting jump in their seats. "Testing the hypothesis that high intelligence provides resistance to the effects of the Imperius curse. Mr. Malfoy, to the front, if you please!"

Draco grits his teeth and has a feeling this will not end well. He pushes himself to his feet and moves past Harry, into and down the aisle that leads to the front of the room.

"And because every good experiment needs a control group, we need a subject of average intelligence for the sake of comparison. Mr. Weasley, I don't think it's _possible_ to get much more profoundly average than you."

Draco turns in time to see Weasley's expression falling into a furious, smoldering frown. Draco does his very best to keep his face straight as he rises and storms up to the front of the class.

"Remember, both of you – fortitude, clarity, cognizance. Understand and resist. All else being equal, let's see how you fare."

Professor Moody rounds on Weasley first, wand pointed out. "_Imperio_."

Almost before the word leaves his mouth, Weasley's posture relaxes as though he's under sedation. Scarcely ten seconds pass before he's leaping up onto Professor Moody's desk and doing an elaborate kick-flip back onto the ground – a feat of acrobatics that Draco is certain he would not otherwise be capable of without the assistance of the curse.

A few people giggle hesitantly at the display, but they are for the most part silent.

When Professor Moody dispels the curse, Weasley blinks out into the class dazedly, looking as though he can't quite remember what happened.

"Fortitude, clarity, and cognizance," Professor Moody says with some measure of well-concealed disdain. "Still, one keeps one's expectations low. Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco takes in a breath and nods. He turns to face Professor Moody.

His wand is pointed at Draco's face a moment later. "_Imperio_."

At once, Draco does not like the sensation. It is calming and sleepy, but not in a natural way. It makes him feel as though he's under the effects of chloroform, an uneasy and heavy chemical haze.

_Jump onto the desk,_ a voice says to him softly, and Draco knows that the overwhelming desire to jump is entirely manufactured.

He does not jump on the desk. He does not want to. That is obvious, just as obvious as the fact that he does want to.

The pain comes then, crushing and intense, and Draco makes a soft sound of agony that starts at the back of his throat and hisses out through his teeth.

_Jump onto the desk,_ the voice says again, and Draco does and does not want to jump onto the desk in equal measure, and all he has to hold onto is the understanding that one desire is false.

He does not jump onto the desk.

The pain redoubles and Draco collapses onto his knees. The world around him distorts, warps, tunnels, and Draco _does_ want to jump onto the desk, moreso than he wants to not jump onto the desk, even if the desire is unnatural.

He does not jump onto the desk. He _will not jump onto the desk_.

"You're hurting him," someone says, and it sounds like Harry.

"You see _that?_" booms Professor Moody's voice through the terrible fog of pain. "That is _mental fortitude!_ That is _cognizance!_ I'm going to intensify the magic, Mr. Malfoy, brace yourself!"

_JUMP ONTO THE DESK OR YOU WILL DIE,_ the voice roars, and with a strangled shout of pain at his resistance, Draco believes it. Draco will die if he does not jump on the desk. Draco is dying.

_JUMP ONTO THE DESK NOW._

Draco _does not jump onto the desk, he will not, he must not_.

The pain is unbearable, so intense that he no longer knows that it's worth it to fight. Surely it would be easier to submit to failure than endure this torment. He is not sure what it is that keeps him fighting.

But fight he does. Draco does not jump, he will not, he must not, he wants to, he needs to, he will die without jumping, he is dying.

"Stop it! He's in pain! Take it off him!"

_JUMP!_

There's an audible crack of magic around him and the pain vanishes, along with Draco's desire to jump onto the desk. He collapses forward onto the floor.

"_Damn_ good job, Mr. Malfoy! That was _bloody impressive!_ Were you lot paying attention? First time under the curse and he snaps it!"

Draco wills his hands to stop shaking. The echoes of the pain are still thrumming in his muscles, up and down his spine, at the base of his skull. He grabs hold of the nearby desk and uses it to haul himself to his feet, swaying and trembling from exertion.

"Fifteen points to Ravenclaw! Damn good job, Mr. Malfoy, _damn_ good job!"

Draco feels like he needs a strong cup of tea and a sit-down. He needs a nice fire and a comfortable armchair and something interesting to think about so he can get his mind off the most intense and dreadful pain he's ever felt in his life. He staggers down the aisle back toward his desk, and Harry stands up to help him back into his chair.

In the periphery of his awareness he can hear Professor Moody prattling on about cognizance and fortitude, but softly in his ear he hears Harry's gentle, concerned voice:

"Are you okay?" he asks, and Draco takes in a breath.

"I'll live," he says.

Harry grips his hand like it's the most intuitive and obvious gesture in the world. Draco lifts his eyes and looks at him, and that gorgeous smile of his almost has him forgetting the pain.

Almost.

Draco grips Harry's hand back.


	32. 31 October, 1994

_The only good luck many great men ever had was being born with the ability and determination to overcome bad luck._  
Channing Pollock

* * *

Ever since Draco was very small, he's been able to put mind over matter. Once when he was eight, he locked himself up in his bedroom with a spelled textbook and refused food, sleep, and personal hygiene for three full days until he was passably fluent in French. It has never been a concentrated effort of will – quite the opposite. Ruthless single-mindedness came as naturally to him as his curiosity. He has always put precedence, conscious or otherwise, on important tasks, even when it means fasting and sleep deprivation.

But as he stands outside the entrance to the headmaster's office, he is undone. His heart is stuttering, his hands are clammy, he cannot focus. It's not as though there isn't plenty to think about. Harry's name coming out of the Goblet of Fire raises many alarming questions that offer a lot to consider, but Draco can't see past the single, obvious, aggressive fact that this is clearly has something to do with Voldemort.

Because how could it _not?_ There is no other explanation for all of the facts that comes anywhere close to logical.

He hears the sound of stone sliding on stone and whirls. Karkaroff and Professor Moody exit, followed by Madame Maxine, who ducks slightly beneath the arch. They all seem to be varying shades of unhappy with whatever happened.

Finally, taking up the rear is Harry, looking far more composed than he has any right to be.

"How'd it go?" Draco asks at once, which gets him a few dirty looks from the others present.

Harry gives his head a jerk in the direction of the adjoining hallway. They go in the opposite direction from the others into the darkened corridor. Harry stops beside a window that overlooks the Quidditch Pitch, bracing both hands on the sill.

"There's nothing for it," he says. "The Goblet's choice is a magically binding contract."

Draco knows that, of course. That doesn't make it any less pleasant to be reminded.

"I have to compete," he continues.

"Harry," Draco says.

"I know," Harry interjects. "I mean, it doesn't take a genius to work it out."

Draco folds his arms around himself and stares at his feet.

"You should have seen Professor Snape in there," Harry says, vaguely, fondly, with the traces of a grin on his face. "Spitting mad. I thought he was going to start slinging hexes at anyone who suggested…"

"That you put your own name in," Draco finishes, and Harry sighs. "Idiots, all of them. You had no motivation. They think your celebrity gives them some sort of license to prejudge you."

Draco starts gnawing at his thumb nail. Harry watches silently.

"Do you remember what we talked about last summer?" Harry asks.

Draco looks up at him.

"About being ready?"

"I remember," Draco says. He mostly remembers the feel of Harry's breath on his jaw and how very close they were, granted, but he remembers what they said, too.

"This is a part of that."

"Clearly."

Draco goes back to gnawing at his thumb nail. Harry sighs, closes the distance between them, and takes him by the wrist. The butterfly, which had settled somewhere near Draco's ankle, spirals up his calf and thigh at the touch. He looks up at Harry.

"They won't kill me," Harry says.

"I don't think that's the goal."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "No?"

"Throw you into the Triwizard Tournament and expect you to die?" Draco shakes his head. "Not a good plan. It relies too much on entropy. We're not dealing with someone who'd just toss you into danger and hope for the best. There's something specific in this somewhere. I just… I don't… I _can't_…"

"It's all right," Harry says.

"It's _not_ all right," Draco hisses, yanking his wrist from Harry's grasp. "It's happening again. I'm scared and I'm stupid. I can't stop thinking about the varied and numerous ways you could be ripped to shreds, and it _scares the hell out of me_."

"Draco," Harry says, softly.

"And I can't help but feel like if I could just detach myself from all this fucking _fear_, if I could just see it objectively, maybe I could be _useful_ about everything – maybe I could come up with some answers, see some vital clue that I'm missing, work it out – but I _can't_, because I'm just too fucking _scared_—"

And then both of Harry's hands are on Draco's face and Draco feels like he's being pulled under by a riptide, suddenly and brutally, and it's so abrupt that he is dizzy. He looks up at Harry and, _oh, Merlin,_ he's so close, that's his hip against Draco's hip, his knee against Draco's knee, and the electricity that always comes as a product of proximity is stronger than ever, surging in his veins and setting him on fire. His entire body is thrumming in response to the closeness, his blood is pounding, and Draco is suddenly aware of the fact that this is what physical attraction feels like. It's awful, and also incredible. Draco wants it to stop at once, and to feel it for the rest of his life.

Draco is noticing all the little details of Harry's face, the slope of his jaw, the near-invisible freckling on his nose and cheeks, the impossible greenness of his eyes. _Merlin,_ when did Harry get so gorgeous? Had he always been this handsome? Had Draco just not _noticed?_ When was the last time Draco _didn't notice_ something?

"I'll be okay," Harry says, and it takes Draco a moment to remember what he's talking about. He'd already left the conversation behind and has trouble coming up with a response.

"I…" Draco attempts, but the thought falters and dies. The butterfly is fluttering near the junction of his hip and pelvis.

"I'm not a terrible wizard," Harry continues. "And I know it's easy to forget when I'm hanging around you all the time, but I'm also pretty smart."

"You're smart," is just about all Draco can manage. Polysyllabic words are a bit beyond him when Harry's hands are still on his face.

"You seem flustered," Harry says, more softly, lowly, and Draco shivers.

"I'm…"

The tip of Harry's nose is brushing against Draco's cheek and his mind does a full shutdown. His fingers are curving around the crux of his jaw, his stomach is pressing into Draco's, he is so close that if Draco lifts his chin the barest fraction, they will—

"—get _killed_, Albus!"

Draco nearly screams in frustration as they both pull away. They cannot keep _doing_ this. Draco will go _mad_.

"I know, Severus."

Professors Snape and Dumbledore are standing several yards away. Professor Snape is tight with frustration; Professor Dumbledore is loose and weak with weariness.

"Has all sanity left Hogwarts?"

"Years ago, my friend," Professor Dumbledore sighs. "Years ago."

Professor Snape huffs and angry sigh and turns on a heel, stalking down the corridor.

"Harry," he says when he's close enough, "come with me. We need to speak at more length about what you should expect from this godforsaken tournament."

"I – ah – yes, Professor."

"And Draco," he continues, "I'll see you for our weekly tea tomorrow."

And then, with only a last glance between them, they vanish down the hallway, Professor Snape muttering angrily and Harry struggling to keep apace.

But the moment lingers behind, on his lips, in his blood, and Draco is still dizzy. He leans against the wall and puts one hand over his chest, willing away the far-too-distracting memories of Harry and his skin, his smell, his fingers on his jaw, his body pressed against his own, the crushing, intense, terrible-wonderful feeling of attraction.


	33. 22 November, 1994

_Lips go dry and eyes grow wet  
Waiting to be warmly met.  
Keep them not in waiting yet;  
Kisses kept are wasted._  
Edmund Vance Cooke

* * *

"_There_ you are," says Harry, and it catches Draco so off-guard that he nearly destroys eight hours worth of progress by knocking it onto the floor of the dormitory. He spins in his seat.

"Harry?"

"At least give us some warning the next time you drop off the face of the earth," he says, draping his invisibility cloak over one arm.

Draco huffs an indignant sigh. "I did _not_ drop off the face of the earth." He turns back around. He doesn't bother asking why Harry's in the Ravenclaw dormitories – it's not the first time he'd snuck into the tower, and he doubted it would be the last. Draco had done his own share of breaking into the Gryffindor Tower, and privately counts it as more impressive, since he'd never had the benefit of invisibility in doing so.

"Well, you weren't at lunch _or_ dinner."

"Who needs food? Food is boring. I'm nearly done."

Harry heads over to his desk and peers over his shoulder. "Is this the whatever dangerous medical thing you were working on?"

"No, that was put on hold. This is much more useful, especially with the First Task coming up."

Harry seems surprised. "You built this for me?"

"Well, since I can't be in there with you, I figure this is the next best thing. I'm thinking of calling it a panic button."

"A panic button?"

Draco holds it up to the light. It ended up being the approximate size and dimensions of a lighter, sleek and shiny silver with a cap on one end. "It's either that or the 'oh, shit' button, and who knows when we might bring it up in polite company."

Harry sits down on the edge of Draco's bed near the desk. "What's it do?"

"A combination of things. Hit this button here and it warps you forward ten feet in a random direction to avoid anything unpleasant that might be hurtling toward you. I've adjusted it to avoid inanimate objects so you won't end up with one leg stuck in a wall or anything."

Harry smirks and Draco does his very best not to let himself get distracted by it.

"This second button creates a highly potent magical shield," Draco continues. "It's holds at up to 10,000 Newtons of force and 800 degrees Kelvin, though it does need about an hour to recharge after each use."

"_That'll_ be useful," Harry says.

"And finally, this last button is an emergency portkey. At the moment it's bound to Professor Snape's office, but it can be altered like any portkey. Not useful for the Triwizard Tournament, maybe, but what sort of panic button doesn't have a portkey somewhere safe, right?"

"Not any panic button I've ever heard of," says Harry. "Granted, I've never heard of any panic buttons before today, but technically correct is the best kind of correct."

"You're not allowed anything but your wand, of course, but you should be able to summon it. I'll be watching, and I'll have it on me, so it won't have far to travel."

"May I?"

Draco rises and heads over to where Harry's sitting on his bed. He hands it to him, and Harry turns the device over in his hands carefully.

"I suppose telling you what a genius you are wouldn't be very productive," Harry says, looking up at him.

Draco rolls his eyes.

"This is _really_ impressive, Draco," he says. "This is some seriously advanced magic. And it will be bloody useful against a dragon."

Frowning, Draco says, "Dragon?"

"That's what I came here to tell you," Harry says. "The First Task is dragons. I was out visiting Hagrid and I saw them."

Draco takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. "Dragons," he says. "Damn, they're really not pulling any punches."

"Professor Snape has been helping me brush up on defensive magic, which has helped loads, and now I have this, which will help loads, but…"

"But on the other hand, dragons."

"Yeah," Harry sighs. "Don't suppose you've got any tips."

"A few," he replies. "I'll grab some books and meet you after breakfast tomorrow."

Harry nods and looks back down at the panic button again. His thumb swipes idly across the polished silver.

"Are you frightened?" Draco asks without really meaning to, and Harry looks up.

"Of dragons?"

"Of everything."

Harry's response is not immediate. "I'm nervous, I guess," he says.

"You could die. People have before, in these games."

"I wouldn't dare," Harry says, grinning lopsidedly up at Draco, and Draco feels his edges start to melt at the sight of it. "If I had the audacity to die, you'd resurrect me just so you could murder me again."

"That's your plan?" Draco asks, his voice a bit thicker than he'd intended. "Survive by sheer force of stubbornness?"

"I'm a Gryffindor," Harry says with a shrug, instead of giving Draco a proper answer. Draco is half tempted to kick him in the knee, but there's an uncomfortable vulnerability and fragility that grows stronger as the conversation progresses.

"Don't die," Draco says, rather with more emotion than he probably should have allowed. It makes Harry lift his eyes and frown, gently, understandingly.

"I'll be okay." He reaches out and takes both of Draco's hands in his own. Draco is suddenly aware of how close they are, and he swallows. They both stare down at their hands in silence for several long seconds.

"Harry," Draco begins, and Harry looks back up, "have I… these past few months – all these moments – have I been imagining things?"

Harry swallows, though he remains otherwise composed. "You haven't been imagining things," he says.

Draco was not and had never been the sort of person to see anything less than exactly what was, of course, but hearing Harry say it out loud made his stomach tie in knots all the same. The butterfly, which had been resting on his back, flutters around to his chest.

"So all those instances where…"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I feel like I've been trying to kiss you for the better part of a year."

There is an expanding pressure in Draco's chest that is hot and roiling and addictive. Hearing it admitted, out in the open, brings with it the most purely serene and uncomplicated joy that Draco has yet experienced. He takes in a slow breath.

"For what it's worth," Draco says, "I had always intended to kiss you back."

Silence stretches between them. Harry, still sitting on the edge of Draco's bed, reaches one hand up and slips it around the back of Draco's neck, fingers carding into his hair.

"Kiss me now, then," he mutters.

His heart is no longer beating but _thrumming_ in his chest, like a hummingbird, and Draco swallows, ducks his head as Harry lifts his chin—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Draco's not sure who it is but he is tempted to kill them on principle. He looks over his shoulder.

Luna, another of Draco's friendlier acquaintances, is standing in the doorway, her expression halfway between unfocused and devious.

"This is the boy's dormitory, Luna," Draco snaps.

"It's also the Ravenclaw Tower," she says with a vague, aimless giggle, and Harry clears his throat.

"What do you _want?_" Draco asks, because he would very much like to get back to the kissing, especially now that he knows it is explicitly and thoroughly wanted by both parties involved.

"Anthony wants me to ask you to help him translate something into French," she says. "He's trying to write a love letter to Fleur Delacour and knows you speak the language."

"Tell him – and it's very important to use this exact phrasing – to go fuck himself."

"He thought you might say that, and gave me leave to bribe you with that first edition copy of Merlin's _Lex Arcana_ from his father's shop you wanted."

The worst thing about being a Ravenclaw, in Draco's opinion, is the fact that all your housemates are just smart enough to make you do exactly what they want, even when it's wildly inconvenient. Draco had nearly licked the glass when he found that book in Goldstein's Goods and Gifts in Hogsmeade (where had they even _found_ a first edition Merlin in that kind of condition?), and the sneaky bastard must have noticed.

Damn it.

"And why couldn't he come up here himself and ask me?" At least that way Draco could have kicked him to make a point.

"The same reason he wants your help," she answers. "Fleur Delacour."

Draco groans. Veela.

"It's all right," Harry says. "I mean, I probably shouldn't hang about, anyway – don't want too many people knowing I'm here."

"I'm sorry," Draco says, because he is.

Harry smirks. "All things considered," he says, "I don't mind so much."

And despite himself, Draco is biting down on his grin. "See you later?"

"Definitely," Harry replies, grinning right back.

"You boys are adorable," Luna decides.


	34. 24 November, 1994

_The price of victory is high but so are the rewards._  
Paul Bryant

* * *

"You're going to wear a hole in the sleeve of your robe if you keep fussing with it," Professor Snape says, and Draco is so tightly-strung that he nearly snaps something very unkind.

"I'm tense," he says instead through gritted teeth.

"Clearly," Professor Snape returns. "Just don't take it out on your robe."

It has not been a good day.

The Triwizard Tournament had opened up the heavens in the skies over Hogwarts, and the arena built for the First Task had to be magically expanded to accommodate everyone who came out in droves to see it.

The media had taken a keen interest it. Reporters from all the major periodicals were in attendance, if Luna's expertise was to be believed, and apparently several front page articles had already been written about the champions.

Draco hasn't read them, though he's been told they're quite sensational, particularly the ones concerning Harry. He tells himself he doesn't care, but has a sneaking suspicion that he's lying to himself. Either way, he never lets himself think about it too much.

Harry, of course, was selected to go last. Krum and Diggory and Delacour had all performed at varying degrees of passable, but Draco could barely focus on them. He can't focus on anything until the tent flap opens and Harry steps out into the sunlight.

Draco's breath catches in his throat. Beside him, Professor Snape places a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I have to—" But Draco doesn't bother finishing the sentence. He rises from his seat, ignoring Professor Snape's small sound of protest, and races down the steps of the coliseum-style arena set up for the event.

He stops when he comes to the front bulwark and braces both hands on the railing, wind and sunlight making him squint. Harry looks damn handsome in his fitted, padded leathers, his hair combed back and his wand in one hand. Draco swallows what feels like his entire heart back down and produces the panic button from his pocket, setting it down on the railing.

The Hungarian Horntail is a particularly vicious specimen, all gleaming black scales and dreadful horns. Draco cannot imagine being in Harry's place right now, staring down ten tons of dragon with nothing but wand and wit.

The panic button rattles on the wood, then zips away. It moves almost invisibly through the air and slaps into Harry's hand, which is still at his side. No one seems to notice.

Harry looks over at him and winks.

The cocky bastard _winks_.

Draco shoots him what he hopes is a vicious scowl, but knowing his luck, he probably looks stupidly heartsick. Whatever his expression, it makes Harry smirk, palm the panic button in one hand, and raise his wand with the other.

If Draco had had it his way, they'd have spent at least two weeks preparing via an entire dragon-based curriculum – in the end, of course, they'd only had two days. Draco had packed as much information in as he could, but when Harry casts his first spell, it suddenly feels like it was not enough.

The strategy revolves around a simple mirroring spell, with dozens of Harry-shaped illusions darting off in different directions. Dragons are quick and brutal and powerful, but their sensory abilities are only about as good as a human's, and as Draco suspected it might, multiple images of Harry confuse it.

The fight is terrifying. The dragon swipes its claws, snaps its teeth, breathes dreadful funnels of flame, and the flimsy magical illusions evaporate one by one like drops of water on hot metal. Harry is fast, ducking under massive sweeps of the beast's tail, dodging its talons, and making a fast beeline for the nest with the golden egg.

Draco stares, transfixed, at the midway point between terrified, impressed, and turned-on. Harry is doing astonishingly well, and as he scoops up the golden egg with one hand, the dragon turns its massive black head and—

"_Harry!_" Draco cries.

Harry whirls just as the dragon opens its mouth and takes in a deep breath. The flames come out in a cone so bright that Draco's eyes sting.

For several terrible seconds, Draco can't see him – until, quite suddenly, he can, standing precisely where he was, under a broad arc of protective magic. The panic button, Draco realizes, has held up against dragonfire.

Harry casts a confundus charm strong enough to send the beast staggering before leaping off the nest and ducking between its legs and under its body, then out the other side.

The arena is on its feet, cheering and stomping and chanting his name.

Draco is dizzy. The dragon tamers leap in the moment Harry makes it back to the safe zone, and from the crowd behind him, Draco can hear the low chanting – _Potter! Potter! Potter!_

Without quite knowing what he's doing, Draco takes off in a run, out of the arena stands, down through the labyrinth of tents and past the officials milling around. He pushes his way out to the edge of the safety zone, where Harry is staring out in silent astonishment at the crowd. He turns when he sees—

"Draco—"

Draco is not interested in talking. He comes at Harry like a force of nature, grabs him by the front of his padded leathers, and kisses him with every ounce of strength he has, in front of God and everyone.

At once, Harry drops the golden egg under his arm and grabs Draco around the waist, matching the intensity and wanting in equal measure.

It is not so much as a kiss as it is a head rush. It's a mind-bending, earth-shattering, life-changing euphoria of a kiss, clumsy and passionate and insane and _perfect_. It is dizzying and electrifying and ten times more wonderful than a first kiss has any right to be.

Harry tastes like mint and pumpkin juice, and his lips are pleasantly rough, chapped as they press firmly, desperately into Draco's. Harry's hands slide up his back as Draco's arms move around Harry's neck and at that moment there is absolutely nothing else that exists in the universe except Harry, pressed into him, kissing him like his life depends on it, and maybe it does.

When Draco pulls away it's only because he needs to breathe. Harry is staring down at him.

"Wow," he says breathlessly.

Draco kisses him again.


	35. 18 December, 1994

_There is only one kind of shock worse than the totally unexpected: the expected for which one has refused to prepare._  
Mary Renault

* * *

_A CHAMPION'S QUEER REWARD,_ runs the headline, just above the large picture of Harry and Draco tangled in each other at the edge of the arena. It's a good photo, Draco notices idly, with a splendid angle that captures just the right moment of that incredible kiss, when Draco is sliding his arms around Harry's neck.

And Rita Skeeter must be very proud of the double entendre in the headline.

"You shouldn't read that dreck, it will rot your brain."

Draco looks away from the paper just as Harry sinks into the chair next to him. He's wearing that delightful little lopsided smile of his, and Draco grins without meaning to.

"You shouldn't encourage more of it," Draco counters. Harry settles in next to him, just a little bit closer than could be considered friendly, which Draco is more than fine with.

"Oh, shouldn't I?"

"You more than anyone have an understanding of how these things go," Draco says. "Keep sitting this close and grinning like that and people will talk."

"People do little else," Harry remarks, and Draco laughs. "Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?"

Draco stops laughing quite abruptly and stares at him in astonished silence.

"I mean, they've done everything but actually tell me that I'm required to bring a date," he continues. "I know you're not one for social gatherings, but I thought…"

Harry's assessment is, Draco thinks, a bit generous. Draco avoids most popular social events with the same ardour and enthusiasm with which he avoids communicable disease. If someone had told him two weeks ago that he would be asked to attend the Yule Ball, he would have called them a liar.

And if that same hypothetical someone had implied that Draco would be feeling this giddy about it, he would have kicked them in the knee.

"I—" he begins, but he's not sure where that sentence would go, so he starts over: "Is that… are we allowed? To go together, I mean."

Harry wets his lips. "I wasn't sure, actually," he admits. "I know that wizarding society is a bit – well, behind the times and everything, so I went to ask Professor Dumbledore. He said it's fine. He was pretty adamant about it, actually. Said that if anyone gave us problems with it, that we could come to him."

Draco's opinion of Dumbledore has always been a bit on the unfavorable side, but that does earn him a point in his favor.

"There might… it could cause some trouble," Draco says, carefully. "Generally speaking."

"I know," Harry replies. "I've known that for a while. I just can't make myself care. Trust me, I've tried."

Draco is suddenly aware of the fact that they're no longer just talking about the Yule Ball. After a moment, he smiles.

"Draco," says Professor Snape, who must have approached the Ravenclaw table at some point but who Draco hadn't even noticed. When Draco looks up at him, he seems unusually dour-faced, and his hands are clasped behind his back in that way he only does when he's got bad news. "We need to talk."

"I—" He looks between Harry and Professor Snape. "All right."

"Let's go to my office."

Draco nods and rises, but Harry grabs his sleeve before he can move.

"Wait," Harry says, "so – so, what's your answer? Do you want to go?"

He spares another glance back at Professor Snape, who's clearly impatient, and then back down at Harry, who seems just a little bit apprehensive though he's doing his best to act otherwise. Draco dares a smile.

"Absolutely," he says, then he bends down and kisses him, just once, just lightly, on the mouth, and when he pulls back, Harry's beaming.

Draco heads around the Ravenclaw table and hurries to catch up with Professor Snape, who's already halfway out of the Great Hall.

As they walk, Draco spares him a sideways glance. He's looking ahead, but he doesn't seem to be actually _seeing_ anything. He's lost in his own thoughts.

"No comments?" Draco asks. "No passing remarks?"

Professor Snape is jerked out of his own head and looks back at him. "What?"

"About Harry and I," he continues. "You've been unusually silent about the whole thing."

"Was I meant to be surprised?" he returns. "I'm fairly sure I saw this coming before either of you two did."

Draco opens his mouth to come back at him with a more creative wording of _shut up, no you didn't_ before realizing that he probably did.

They make it down into the dungeons and into the quiet potions classroom, now smelling thickly of Murtlap essence from a recent lesson.

"So what is this about?" Draco asks as they make it int his office.

"Have a seat," Professor Snape says, which doesn't bode well. Draco sits down in his usual chair, and Professor Snape sits opposite him, at his desk.

"I went to do my usual check-in on your parents yesterday," he says.

Draco feels a sudden crunch of fear in his gut. "Are they all right?" Draco asks, sitting forward in his seat. "Did the memory charms reverse?"

"The memory charms were fine," Professor Snape says. "I've been reapplying them every visit as necessary, like we agreed."

The crunch of fear gets even tighter. "Is it to do with Voldemort?"

"No. No, Draco it—"

He falters. In Draco's entire life, he can only recall three instances where Professor Snape was well and truly lost for words, and even fewer occasions when he was nervous. The fear heats with alarm.

"Professor," Draco urges when the silence becomes too long.

"Draco," he says, "your mother is pregnant."

"Oh," Draco says. Then, "What?"

"Your mother is pregnant," he repeats, more gently. He reaches into his robe and produces a small, eggshell-colored card from the inside of his robe. "She gave me the announcement when I stopped by."

The fear and alarm are gone. They are replaced with something new, some emotion or combination of emotions that Draco can't quite place.

Professor Snape offers out the card across his desk. It takes a concentrated effort of will to reach out his hand and take it.

_A New Life is on the Way,_ reads the card in handsome golden script. _Narcissa Black Malfoy is expecting. The child is due June. En lieu of gifts, donations may be made to the baby's trust fund._

June. So not only is his mother pregnant, she's entering into her second trimester.

Draco reads the card several times. He cannot think of what to say. He is not sure if there is any combination of words in existence that express all that is going through his mind.

It's only when the words on the card start to shake that he realizes his hands are trembling. Draco pushes the note into his lap and flexes his fingers.

"I…"

The sentence doesn't go anywhere. Professor Snape seems patient, however, and waits for him to try again.

"Do… do they know the sex of the child?" Draco finally manages.

"Yes," Professor Snape responds. "Do _you_ want to know the sex?"

It's a damn good question and for a moment Draco isn't sure. Eventually, he says, "Yes."

"It's a girl."

Draco sinks into his chair. There were only two options, but somehow he is still surprised – rendered breathless by the force of the realization.

"They had no heir to the Malfoy fortune," Professor Snape continues, gently. "They expressed some confusion as to why it took them so long to conceive at all."

Draco closes his eyes. He should have known this would happen. Perhaps some part of him _had_ known, but he'd never thought – he'd never even _considered_—

"Will I ever get to meet her?" Draco asks, finding that it is suddenly quite hard for him to speak. "Will I ever meet my sister?"

Professor Snape doesn't answer, and Draco doubles over himself, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. His throat hurts from the strain of trying desperately not to cry. He hears Professor Snape rise and move toward the hearth to put on some tea.

Draco takes the opportunity to get himself under control as best he can. It's not an easy thing. His mind is filling with questions more quickly than he cares to consider them, and with each one he is crushed under an ever-growing weight of uncertainty. What will she be like? Will Draco have any part in her life? Will she even make it out of the approaching war?

Several minutes later, Professor Snape gently urges a cup of tea into his hands. By then, at least, Draco has mostly got himself under control, and he takes a sip of tea. It's far too hot, but Draco finds he doesn't mind the burn.

Professor Snape sits down in the chair next to him rather then back at his desk.

"I can do damage control, of course," Professor Snape says. "I did a quick check of your old baby things in storage and took out anything identifying. Most of it was inherited and won't cause any suspicion. I'll do a more thorough look when I go back next week."

Draco is barely listening.

"How am I supposed to know what to do?" he asks. "There are a million-million radiations from a million-million instances of choice and chance and fate."

"That's chaos, Draco," Professor Snape says.

Draco takes another sip of his too-hot tea, hating chaos for the first time in his life.


	36. 25 December, 1994

_Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze._  
Elinor Glyn

* * *

"Holy shit," is the first thing out of Harry's mouth when Draco sees him that evening, and it makes him look around to be sure that he hadn't missed something.

But there's nothing. The corridor outside the Great Hall is a drifting mass of people moving toward the large double doors, and nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. "What?" Draco asks.

"You look…"

Draco looks down at himself. He'd chosen a higher-end Justine St-Clair dress robe – an inky black piece with long, fitted sleeves and elaborate silver embroidery winding around the wrists, up the forearms, around the collar, and along the lower hem. Draco had never been anyone's definition of fashion-conscious, but he'd been raised in the world of the idle rich, and he had, if nothing else, an eye for quality.

"Good, hopefully."

"Better than good," Harry says.

"You don't clean up so bad, yourself," Draco remarks, eyeing his suit – a matte black three piece with a white shirt and a tie of bright Gryffindor scarlet. "Where'd you get that suit?"

"I – uh, Gladrags," he answers. Harry tears his eyes away from the lines and folds of Draco's robe, looking a bit flustered.

"All right?"

"You just – you look great. Amazing."

Draco realizes, rather abruptly, that Harry thinks he's attractive. Between the long months of agonizing unconsummated romantic tension and the past few weeks full of lengthy sessions of Harry kissing him up walls in abandoned hallways between classes (which, Draco had since decided, was a very welcome addition to their relationship), Draco had of course known that there was chemistry, but he'd never really considered the fact that Harry might find him physically as well as intellectually appealing. The idea that Harry appreciated him for his body as well as his mind—

Draco swallows a sudden lump in his throat and puts that thought away before he lets himself get too far with it. Now is not the time.

"Thank you," Draco says instead. "Shall we?"

Harry smiles and moves forward to link his arm in Draco's, and his heart thumps against his ribs at the heat and the closeness, and together they make their way into the Great Hall.

Gossip, as it always does, had spread more quickly and more pervasively than a virus, and when Harry and Draco first make their entrance, there is a noticeable hush that falls through the room. Draco can feel a thousand eyes prickling his skin like nettle, and he is suddenly glad that he doesn't care as much as he could about the opinion of others.

In any case, the Great Hall looks beautiful, done up with silver streamers and dominated by a giant Christmas tree. Though the Yule Ball hasn't begun in any formal capacity, the music is already playing and there are a lot of couples dancing. Draco would have liked more time to admire it, but before they've gained their bearings, they're being approached by the Durmstrang champion and his date.

"Harry!" says the date, a bushy-haired Gryffindor girl that Draco vaguely recognizes. "You look great. And this must be Draco!"

Harry sighs, looking put-off. "Hermione," he says, "he's really not—"

"You promised an introduction," she returns, her smile tight and her words drawn.

Harry sighs again, looking resigned, and just a little bit annoyed.

"Draco," he says, "this is Hermione Granger."

"Charmed," Hermione says at once. Her grip on her date's arm tightens.

"Nice to meet you," Draco says, trying to determine the cause of her slightly manic expression.

"And you know Viktor Krum, of course."

"A pleasure." Krum's accent is thick, but not impenetrable. He inclines his head.

Draco smiles thinly. "_Dobar wecher, gospodin Krum. Vesela Koleda._"

That catches Krum's attention. "You speak Bulgarian!"

"Bits and pieces," Draco returns. "I know Russian, in any case, which gives me something of a head start. All those Serbian languages share commonalities."

"It's so good to finally meet you in person," Hermione says, and Draco notices the subtle tensing of her face that only makes her look madder and more manic. "After nearly four years as rivals."

Harry sighs. Draco cants his head to the side.

"I'm sorry," he says, "rivals?"

"Well, _intellectual_ rivals, perhaps!"

Her tone was somewhere between jocular and angry. Draco wonders if this is one of those social cues that's obvious to everyone but him, and suddenly wishes he hadn't come.

"Hermione's been sort of—" Harry begins, but falters, looking between her and Draco, "—uh, sort of in competition with you. You've gotten top marks every year since first, and she's sort of…"

"Oh," Draco says like that explains everything, even though it explains nothing and Draco is even more confused.

"I'm sure you've noticed," she says, and her grip on Krum's arm is so tight that he's looking down at her hands with an expression of pain. "I've come in second! Second to you. Every single year. For three years."

"I don't really pay attention to the ranking," Draco admits. The response seems to anger her even further and Draco's not sure why.

"Of course you don't." Her voice is tight.

"Herr-me-own, your hand—" Krum begins, but she keeps talking.

"What _is_ your secret?" she asks. "Harry says you don't even study, but I think we _both_ know that with marks like yours, that's simply not _possible_."

"Hermione," Harry says, sounding pained.

"I've been tutored by Professor Snape since I was very young," Draco answers. "I completed the Hogwarts curriculum independently when I was six."

Hermione laughs and it is a terrifying sound. "Did you indeed! Did you _indeed_."

"Oh, wow," Harry says loudly, "the music's starting up – the champion's dance! Draco, are you ready?"

Draco doesn't have time to answer. Harry tugs him along by the wrist until they're at the center of the dance floor, where the other students have given berth. The other two champions had also taken Ravenclaws, Draco notices with some surprise – Cedric Diggory had taken Cho Chang, and Fleur Delacour had taken Roger Davies. Draco would have liked to think that it made Viktor Krum and Hermione the odd couple out, but he couldn't make himself believe that. As they took their places on the dance floor, Draco felt all the eyes back on them.

"I'm sorry about Hermione," Harry whispers as the music starts up, and after taking one of Harry's hands and placing the other in his shoulder, they start a slow, even sashay across the floor. "She's really nice, she's just – she doesn't like not being the smartest person in the room. She's pretty competitive."

"I don't think she likes me," Draco says with a frown.

"This is hard," Harry says, looking down at their feet.

"That's because you're trying to waltz to a duple meter song."

"What?"

"The waltz is a triple meter dance, and – never mind. Follow my lead."

With Draco guiding, the dance goes much smoother. Harry gets the hang of it quickly, and soon enough he's moving quite naturally. By the crescendo, Harry's attention is back on Draco. Despite the expression of open adoration that is soon falling across Harry's features, Draco can't feel at ease. The judging eyes of his peers are burning into him.

"Penny for your thoughts," Harry says.

As they usually are, Draco's thoughts are in several places at once, operating simultaneously. They should be much brighter than they are.

In one corner of his mind, Draco is feeling exposed and vulnerable. He does not and has never concerned himself with the opinions of those who would judge him for who he is, but it would be ridiculous to ignore the fact that there are people in this school who could, and would, make his life hell for daring to openly express affection for Harry. It certainly doesn't help that, since the kiss – which, with the clarity of hindsight, Draco does rather regret doing so publicly – their blossoming affections have become a matter of national interest.

In another corner of his mind, Draco is and has been every day since he learned of it working through the news that his mother is pregnant. He is constantly preoccupied by questions that he can't answer – will he be a part of his sister's life? How can he be expected to be a big brother to a sibling on the opposite side of a war? Will she even be safe? Will he ever even meet her?

And then, of course, in the darkest and most terrible corner, Draco is perpetually frustrated with his inability to see through whatever plan the Dark Lord has concocted. He knows nothing beyond the fact that he needs Harry specifically – but for what? Why the Triwizard Tournament? What is the ultimate goal? Why can't Draco _figure it out?_

"Draco?"

He looks up from where he'd been staring into the floor. Harry is watching him in concern.

"My thoughts aren't worth a penny," Draco says, rather belatedly.

The song ends to scattered applause. A new song starts up, and other couples filter onto the dance floor. Harry and Draco gravitate away, to the edge of the room and through a pair of double doors leading into a rose garden set up for the Yule Ball. It's chilly and snow-dusted, lit insufficiently, and breathtakingly beautiful.

"I know what you look like when you're scared," Harry says, and Draco looks out of him. "And I also know what you look like when you're scared and trying not to let on."

"I'm not that easy to read," Draco protests.

"You are a little bit."

Draco tilts his head up toward the dark winter sky. Ever since he was very young, Draco has been a creature of the cold, always favoring chill to heat. An icy wind rushes past and Draco breathes it in, relishing the smell of snow and the shiver it sparks down his spine.

"You can tell me."

Draco looks back down at Harry. In the silvery light of the rose garden, the lines of his face are put into hazy relief. Draco is struck by the sudden notion that it's fine – or, at least, it will be. Seeing Harry's expression of concern and affection fills him with a strange feeling of invincibility.

"What am I going to do with you, Harry Potter?"

Harry frowns like he doesn't understand.

"I have every reason in the world to be terrified," he continues. "There are forces conspiring against us and I can't figure out how or to what end. Half the school thinks us sinful deviants, and the Wizarding World is judging us for everything we are and many things we are not. By all rights, we are a mess."

Harry doesn't answer, though by his expression of concern he seems like he wants to.

"And somehow when I'm here with you it all just blows away like so much snow in the wind."

A moment passes. Harry's expression softens. One arm slides around Draco's back and easily, too easily, _frighteningly_ easily, Draco melts into him, hands on his shoulders, head on his chest.

"You know what your problem is?" Harry asks.

Draco hums. He doesn't care as much as he probably should, but he likes to hear the sounds through Harry's chest when he speaks.

"You think too much."

Draco hums again, lifting the end so it sounds interrogative.

"You've got to give that gorgeous brain of yours a rest every once in a while or you'll think yourself to death."

Harry's lips press to his temple and Draco lifts his head to catch a second kiss against his mouth. Draco loves these kisses, almost more than he loves the ferocious, breath-stealing snogs up the hallway walls between classes. The softness, the closeness, the heat of him that melts all of Draco's hard edges – Draco wonders how he ever made it fourteen years without these kisses.

"It doesn't just turn on and off, you know," Draco says into Harry's mouth.

"I'm pretty sure I can at least shut it up for a while," Harry answers, and then he's _kissing_ him, _really_ kissing him, thoroughly, deeply, fantastically, the sort of kiss that makes Draco's head spin and his toes curl. Harry's arms around his waist tighten and pull him that last impossible inch closer, and Draco tangles his fingers in Harry's hair.

Time passes. Draco's not really sure how much. When Harry pulls back again, Draco blinks dazedly against the soft silvery light.

"How'd I do?" Harry asks.

Draco can't remember what he's talking about. "What?"

Harry smirks.


	37. 14 February, 1995

_Fame is a form, perhaps the worst form, of incomprehension._  
Jorge Luis Borges

* * *

Valentine's Day, Draco knows, is an obscenely overcommercialized holiday. The saint around whom the tradition is based would have lived and died in complete obscurity were it not for the fact that he was made a saint for reasons no reliable historical source can explain. These days it is largely just an excuse to promote the sale of sweets and gifts, and is an unnecessary social expectation for romantic couples and emotional burden on those who are unattached.

But damn it all if Draco hasn't enjoyed the hell out of his Valentine's Day date with Harry.

"Is it good?" Harry asks after Draco spends a few moments experimentally rolling some of Honeydukes special Valentines "Heartburst" candy along his tongue.

"Mmn," Draco replies. It's sweet but rich milk chocolate with traces of mint. When he bites into it, there's a small rush of flavor that breaks free – soft, syrupy raspberry. Draco makes a very undignified noise.

Harry grins and fishes out a few sickles to pay for the bag. They're still picking at it when they make their way out of Honeydukes and onto the sunny, wintery streets of Hogsmeade.

"So was it a good Valentine's Day?" Harry asks as Draco licks the last traces of raspberry from his lips.

"Very good," Draco answers, smirking. "So good I feel sort of guilty for playing into all the hype."

And really, it _had_ been a good day. As soon as class let out, they took the long, snow-dusted walk down to Hogsmeade, while Draco chatted about his medical project and Harry asked relevant questions. They'd had dinner and butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, did some window shopping, and rounded off the day with a trip to Honeydukes.

"Your intellectual resentment for it makes it more enjoyable," Harry insists, bending in to steal a kiss before Draco can protest. Draco hums against Harry's mouth, tugging at his Gryffindor scarf and returning it.

From behind them, a few older Hufflepuffs make a loud sound that reminds Draco of a cat throwing up a hairball. It's just distracting enough to pull away Draco's attention.

"Could have done without all the commentary, though," Draco mumbles. It had been following them not just through Hogsmeade but for the past several months, getting worse with every article published about them – and there had been many, getting more numerous as the Second Task approached.

"Don't mind them," Harry says. "They're just jealous they don't get to kiss someone who tastes of raspberry."

Draco laughs and Harry tries to swallow the sound with another kiss. Draco is looping one arm around Harry's neck when there's a sudden flash of white light from their left, and they both give a start and turn toward it.

Rita Skeeter – Draco had never met her, but if someone had asked him to picture what she looked like, he would have envisioned someone an awful lot like the woman standing in front of him. Her hair is blonde and perfectly coiffed against her oblong head, and her poison green fingernails are tapping against the side of her camera.

"Don't stop on my behalf," she croons, blood red lips curled into a smirk.

"Did no one ever tell you that it's in bad form to stalk people?" Harry asks.

"Darling, don't flatter yourself. It's strictly business. You boys are a hot item. My editor can't get enough of you."

"Good to know we're putting bread on your table," Harry says lowly.

"Let's go," Draco says, knowing better than to engage a reporter with anything they could quote.

"Young Mr. Malfoy! You've been quite a slippery one, haven't you? Have you been ignoring my owls?"

"With great enthusiasm," Draco says shortly, grabbing Harry's wrist and heading away. To his dismay, Skeeter falls a few steps behind.

"If you're upset by the publicity, an interview could be your chance to set the record straight," she says, and her voice is saccharine. "You could tell your side of the story."

"If you think I'm stupid enough to fall for that, you can't have done your research on me very well," Draco says.

"Leave him alone, Skeeter," Harry snaps, "he's not your story."

"I'd have gone to his parents, but they've been suspiciously tight-lipped about the whole thing!"

Draco stops in his tracks and turns around. There's a fire of anger in his chest that is only stoked when he sees the look of glee on Skeeter's face that she was able to provoke a reaction from him.

"Leave my parents alone," he says shortly.

"They certainly seem intent on keeping me away," she says. "They haven't responded to my owls – or anyone's owls, for that matter."

That was likely due to the fact that Draco had designed a ward for the Malfoy Manor that kept away owls and visitors bound out of major periodicals. Still, there was no reason Skeeter had to know that. "My parents know better than to associate with bottom-feeders."

"Is that what it is? Because that's _not_ the popular theory," she says, and her bright green quill is poised at her notebook. "Any comment on the rumors circulating that they're being so quiet because they've disinherited you for your… proclivities?"

Draco purses his lips. His mind spins as he tries to come up with a suitable response. His concentration wars with his growing anger.

"After all," she continues, leaning forward, "the leanings of the Malfoy family are well-known, and I can't imagine that they'd take well the news that their son was romantically involved with the Boy Who Lived. The question is whether or not they'd take it _so_ badly that they'd strip you of your inheritance and name."

Draco's nostrils flare. The anger is so intense now he wonders whether or not it's actually hatred – hatred, that's new, he realizes. Draco has never disliked someone so suddenly, so intensely, so passionately, that he has dared to call it hate, but there it is, snarling and snapping in his chest.

"Your assertion is as patently ridiculous and overwrought as your prose, Ms. Skeeter," he says. "Perhaps you should think of switching to writing romance novels and penny dreadfuls. That is clearly where your skill set lies; not in actual journalism."

Her smile widens and, without moving her gaze off of Draco, she scribbles a few lines in her notebook.

Draco spins on one foot and continues away. This time, Skeeter does not follow.

"Are you all right?" Harry asks.

"_I'm fine,_" Draco says, a bit too loudly.

"Right, yeah, I shout when I'm fine, too."

"I just – _rrrgh_." Draco wants to rip out his hair. He hates this. He was never meant for celebrity. "Fuck Rita Skeeter and fuck _The Daily Prophet_. I have more important things to think about."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, somewhat tentatively.

"I can do more research on mermaids and put finishing touches on that gillyweed extract potion and finish my pet project and try to fucking figure out what the hell I'm missing in this grand design of the Dark Lord's that I can't bloody well untangle—"

"Draco," Harry says.

"—and the point is there are a million things I can think about that aren't bloody Rita Skeeter and her fucking _assertions_—"

"_Draco,_" Harry says again, more loudly, grabbing him by the elbow.

"Who the hell is _she_ to make assumptions about my family?" he snaps, whirling around to face Harry. "How can she profit on making those baseless fucking accusations? It's bad enough I'm getting bloody _hate mail_ – how _dare_ I lead the Savior into sin and debauchery – but now she's bringing my _family_ into it—"

"Jesus," Harry says, "what the hell happened?"

Draco realizes, somewhat belatedly, that each breath is coming out as more of a wheeze, and his hands are shaking, though not from cold. He swallows.

"My mother is pregnant," he says. Perhaps he should have said it earlier. Perhaps he shouldn't have let it fester inside his head like a wound.

Harry stares at him in silence, mouth open.

"Shit," he eventually says.

"I'm going to have a sister and I don't know if – if I'll ever even meet her, if she can even make it out of this war that's apparently coming, and I can't – I don't know what to do, I don't know how to protect her, I feel like I can't do _anything_, and I just—"

Harry grabs him and pulls him into his arms. Draco buries his face in Harry's shoulder and breathes in the familiar scent of cedar and soap.

"It is not your job to protect everyone," Harry whispers into his hair.

"If not me, then who? She's my sister, I can't just…"

Harry kisses the side of his head without answering. There is no answer, of course. Draco would have come up with one by now if there was.

They stand there for a while in the snow until Draco collects himself. The walk back to Hogwarts is quiet, punctuated only by gusts of wind, and warmed only by the way Harry grips his hand in silent, constant reassurance. And as they walk, Draco wonders how he had ever done without it.


	38. 24 February, 1995

_If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life._  
Pablo Neruda

* * *

Draco dreams of water and song.

He dreams of deep blue and impenetrable black, of the thrush of current and an ever-encroaching pressure from all sides. He dreams of music, dark and discordant yet beautiful in its strangeness. He dreams in odd shadows and impossible shapes, in visions that warp and twist and ripple.

He dreams until he wakes up to a sudden crash and noise from all directions.

"Draco! _Draco!_"

He is cold and heavy and disoriented. There are hands on him, indistinct voices, the sound of alarm. He does not move. He is not sure he can.

"Draco, oh, God – Professor Snape!"

He should open his eyes. Why can't he open his eyes?

"Professor Snape, please—!"

"He's in a bewitched sleep."

That certainly explains a lot.

"Stand back, let me…"

There's a cool press of wood to his forehead, and a moment later the hazy paralysis shatters around him like glass. The need for air comes screaming back all at once and he jerks, dragging in a harsh, grating breath.

"Draco, oh, my God—!"

Someone is embracing him tightly. Draco blinks open his eyes and away the water running down his face, and his mind races to catch up with what he's missed. Facts come in rapid fire, as do the connections—

Outside – lake – cedar and soap – Harry – Professor Snape – audience – cameras flashing—

"It's the Second Task," Professor Snape says a moment after Draco's already worked it out, crouched in front of him in the grass. "Don't be alarmed."

Draco is too busy catching his breath to respond.

"Are you all right?" Harry asks him, pulling back to look him in the eye. He's just as soaked through as Draco, dark hair slicked back across his head, glasses covered in beads of water. When Draco can't manages a response, he says, "Draco! Are you all right?"

He manages to nod. The bewitching comes off in fits and starts, uneven layers of delirium stripped away one by one. He is still regaining his center when Harry closes the distance to kiss him.

Draco was already mostly breathless to begin with, but that kiss steals away any lingering hope that he might ever catch up with it. In the periphery he can hear muted words and hear flashpots bursting, and not only does he not care, he does not care _aggressively_, because he feels like he nearly drowned and now Harry is kissing him and anyone who has moral qualms with it can choke on their own outrage.

He returns the kiss as best as he can, but it doesn't last as long as he would have liked. A moment later, Harry is pulling away and turning to Professor Snape.

"I have to go back," he says. "Gabrielle is still down there."

"Harry," Professor Snape begins, "the timer—"

But Harry isn't listening, clearly. He produces Draco's specially-brewed gillyweed extract potion from the pocket of his soaked robe and throws back another mouthful. "I'll be back!" he says, before taking off in a run and diving back into the lake.

Draco stares after him. If he had more control over his muscles he probably would have tried to stop him.

"The Task—" Draco manages, but Professor Snape cuts him off.

"Yes, Draco, you did indeed misinterpret the clue the egg gave."

Draco swallows thickly.

"Harry's most precious possession was not his invisibility cloak."

Draco is in no shape to be analyzing that idea too deeply, but he can't stop the slowly-spreading warmth that starts in his stomach and heats him from the inside out.

He is a hopelessly sentimental Gryffindor fool, and Draco has never wanted to kiss him so badly in his life.

So of course he had to swan off and put himself in danger to save someone else. Gryffindor bastard.

"Let's get you dry," Professor Snape says, helping Draco to his feet. Draco knows that he will wait however long it takes for Harry to come back. He will drag and drain the lake if he must. At that moment, he is aware, in a very serene and uncomplicated way, that he will joyfully and enthusiastically kill anyone who is a threat to Harry, that he will die for him, and it is the most terrifying and unambiguous certainty he has ever known.


	39. 16 April, 1995

_Love is the answer. But while you're waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions._  
Woody Allen

* * *

A few drops of potion is all it takes to make the skin of Draco's hand grow back in strange pulses in time with his heartbeat. Within about thirty seconds, his hand is completely healed over and free of scars.

"I think I did it," he says, scarcely daring to believe it. Nearly a year of research and planning and it's finally done.

Harry looks up from where he's lying on Draco's bed, alternating his attention between his History of Magic textbook and the accompanying essay. "Really?"

Draco's wand lies dissected on the desk, its wood cut open and its unicorn hair core removed. He moves the fragments out of the way and slowly, slowly flexes the freshly-healed hand. The muscles are stiff and awkward, and the combination of sanitation and numbing spells he'd cast on it smell strange and bitter, but the hand seems to be fully functional.

He takes in a breath and holds his hand out towards the open textbook he'd been consulting and clears his mind.

"_Wingardium leviosa,_" he says, and after a few seconds of rattling, the textbook lifts off the table, his magic channeled successfully through his hand instead of his wand. Draco's face breaks into a grin.

"Damn," Harry says, sitting upright and watching. "I can't believe you did it."

Draco's having a hard time believing it, too. Logically, he knows that he's planned it all out exhaustively, that he's checked and rechecked his theory and technique a thousand times, that there was no reason it should have failed, but seeing the fruit of his labor is incredible: he has replaced the tendons of his hand with unicorn hair and he no longer needs a wand.

Draco grins and gives his fingers a twitch; the book soars across the room and tucks itself on the nearby bookshelf.

"You should write a paper on this," Harry says. "I'm pretty sure you've just erased the need for wandless magic as a field of study."

Calling wandless magic a "field of study" is a bit generous, of course – wandless magic is difficult, unreliable, often dangerous, and very limited, which is why Draco opted out of studying it entirely in favor of this.

Draco still can't quite believe it _worked_.

"This is good," Draco says. "This is what I needed."

"What you needed?"

"This will give me the edge I need," he says. "I can be beaten and bound but I cannot be disarmed."

Harry doesn't respond immediately. Draco casts a few more charms and simple spells, just to test it – he transfigures his trunk into a chair and then back into a trunk, summons a few simple fireworks, and turns the Ravenclaw dormitory curtains from blue to green and then back to blue again. It's working perfectly, just like a wand.

"You really are scared, aren't you?"

Draco looks over at him. Harry is setting his textbook and half-finished essay down on the floor, but his eyes aren't leaving Draco.

"Given who we're dealing with, I hardly think it's an unreasonable precaution," Draco says.

"I didn't say it wasn't."

Draco rises and starts picking up the mess he'd made performing magical surgery on himself – which is, he notices, not as much as one might expect. He stashes the wood from his dissected wand into a bag, folds up all the charts and diagrams, picks up and burns all the gauze with a few quick spells.

"I've said it before, you know," Harry continues. "It's all right to be afraid."

Draco looks back at him. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, in the quiet, abandoned dormitory. During Easter break, the entire tower was desolate and, among other things, the ideal time to finish his pet project.

"This coming from a man who dove into danger to save a competitor's sister?"

Harry grins self-effacingly. "How many times do I have to apologize for that?"

"As many times as it takes until I'm satisfied," Draco answers, moving forward and neatly straddling Harry's lap. Their kissing had recently started involving beds and other horizontal surfaces now that they had the castle mostly to themselves, which Draco has decided is an excellent development. "Those heroics could have gotten you killed."

"No good deed goes unpunished," Harry says, carding his fingers through Draco's hair, and Draco shivers. He can't help it. He has a weakness for Harry playing with his hair, and ever since Harry figured it out, he's been doing nothing but. "We will be all right, you know. In the end."

"And what makes you so damn sure?" Draco asks.

"Because you're outrageously smart and I'm recklessly stupid and we would never let anything happen to each other." Harry kisses his throat and Draco takes in a sharp breath.

"Harry…"

"Mm. Like that?"

Draco can't quite answer because of how much he _does_ like it. Draco's neck, as it turns out, is another weak point of his, and if Draco didn't know any better, he'd think that Harry was making a concerted effort to go through and find each one of his weaknesses. Harry's tongue and teeth glide up the lines of his neck and Draco shivers.

Fingertips slide down Draco's spine, light enough to set fires in his nerves that spread to every part of his body. In some part of his mind, Draco is aware that much of this likely has to do with hormones, but when the same hands that ghost down his spine move to his thighs, he quickly decides that he doesn't care.

"Harry," he says again, more tightly, as Harry's teeth gnash lightly at the skin over his Adam's apple.

There is a definite and unmistakable pressure building in Draco's pelvis, a sensation that Draco's not quite sure how to handle. Harry's kisses are always dizzying and intense, but at the moment they're extra potent, like firewhiskey, pulling Draco apart as if trying to unravel him. He can feel his heart beating in his inner thigh and Harry makes a soft sound against his throat.

"Draco," he says, voice strained, "are you all right with this?"

He barely even knows what "this" is, but he knows he doesn't want it to stop. Draco bends his head down and kisses Harry thoroughly in response, and Harry, releasing a shuddering moan against Draco's mouth, takes him down until Draco's sprawled on his back on the bed, Harry over him, where the kiss continues – hastening, clumsy, tempered with—

—_oh,_ Draco suddenly realizes, this is arousal. This is the culmination of several months of tension and kissing and fantastic snogs against castle walls. This is Harry, making his blood pound and his cock strain and _oh_—

Harry is moving, and Draco can feel him, just as desperate and aching and hard and aroused as Draco is, and the friction makes him groan and grip the back of Harry's shirt. He's breathing hard, and his limbs are trembling, and _Merlin_ this feels so good, _Harry_ feels so good, and Draco bucks his hips up to meet the movements halfway and Harry moans into his jaw.

"Draco," he whispers, "God, you are incredible, how did I ever get so lucky?"

Draco's mind supplies a weak joke about low standards, but he can't quite get it to connect to his mouth thanks to Harry and his unique ability to shut off large parts of his central nervous system with his kisses.

They're moving faster now, in tandem, hands and lips and teeth and tongues, and Draco gives, hopefully, as much as he gets. With his tongue on Harry's pulse point he can tell that his heart's beating nearly as fast as Draco's, and with his hips grinding down he can tell he's still just as hard. One of Harry's hands moves under the hem of Draco's jumper and smooths across the skin of his stomach and Draco is undone.

"_Harry,_" he says, and Harry's fingernails dig into the skin over his ribs, and they are frantic, hands gripping, hearts pounding, aching, straining, burning, raging towards a peak, and Draco feels like he could do this forever. Harry ducks his head and kisses his neck, and Draco claws at his back through the sheer fabric of his shirt and _yes, yes, yes, yes_—

Plateau, peak, static – Draco can feel every inch of Harry's body pressed into his own, and he is breathless, dizzy, and over him, Harry is shuddering and moving in slowing, weakening motions that Draco echoes with the surprisingly little strength he has left.

And Harry kisses him, and Draco returns it, and Draco is far, far gone and doesn't want to come back.


	40. 5 June, 1995

_I know that I know nothing._  
Socrates

* * *

There is a threshold in Draco that can only handle a certain amount of emotional, psychological, and existential anxiety. It is a limit that, when crossed, moves him out of the realm of stable and healthy and brilliant into scared and fragile and useless.

He crossed it once before when he was eight, when, in his self-guided study of metaphysics and ontology, he was forced to arrive at the conclusion that life is fundamentally meaningless and chaotic and that everything that defines his existence was a product of random chance. He spent three full days curled up in bed, rendered inert from the weight of his existential crisis, and only emerged after Professor Snape talked him into the idea that meaning, while fundamentally absent from the universe, is a self-guided principle which must be _chosen_ and not _found_. That was the first day Draco referred to himself as a nihilist. It was also the day he decided that his goal in life would be to learn as much as possible, and forward his species in any way he could, and contribute to the best of his ability to the assurance that humankind would leave a lasting impact on the universe.

As Draco sits by the window he feels it creeping up again. The fear, that dreadful and potent paralytic.

Perhaps, Draco thinks, that threshold broke weeks ago. Perhaps all this time he's been thinking and working and functioning by nothing more than sheer force of will.

Because Draco is terrified – not just by what he does not know (and there is much he does not not know), but by what he _does_. Draco does not know what the Dark Lord is planning, but he knows there is only one thing he can do about it.

"There you are."

Draco looks away from the window. It's Professor Snape, his hands folded behind his back, his dark eyes fixed on Draco.

"You weren't at potions," he continues, when Draco says nothing. "How long have you been sitting here?"

Draco wets his lips. "What time is it?"

Professor Snape consults his pocket watch. "Half-seven."

"About four hours."

Professor Snape doesn't answer immediately. After a moment, he sits down next to Draco on the window ledge, back to the glass, looking out at the hallway as Ravenclaws pass, on their way back to the common room.

"I saw the ingredients you took from my store room," he says. "I know what it is you're brewing."

Draco hugs his legs to his chest and looks out the window.

"Does Harry know?"

"Of course not."

"He will see this as a betrayal, Draco."

Draco shuts his eyes. "I know."

"I admit that I'm not terribly fond of it myself, but…"

"But there is no other way." Draco has been trying to think of one for months, stopped at every turn by the fact that he does not know enough. "The only thing we know for sure of the Dark Lord's plan is that it requires Harry, and the only way to stymie it is to make sure he does not get him. Have you told Professor Dumbledore?"

Professor Snape doesn't answer, but the expression on his face is answer enough.

"And he didn't tell you to stop me?" Draco continues. "I hadn't expected his blessing."

"I wouldn't call it his blessing," Professor Snape says. "He sees it as necessary, because he knows that he can neither stop you nor talk you out of it."

It's all a game of calculation and forethought, Draco supposes. Dumbledore is right in thinking there wouldn't be any easy way to stop him – Dumbledore is smart, but so is Draco, and for Harry, he would find a way out of anything the headmaster might try.

It's funny, in a deeply troubling and dark sort of way, and Draco would laugh, but there is a certain amount of _joie-de-vivre_ necessary for laughter that Draco simply cannot muster.

"You have your panic button," Professor Snape reminds him. "You have your wits. If you think you are in danger, _get out_."

Draco nods. He knows that he will avoid anything life-threatening if at all possible, and Professor Snape knows he knows. His words hadn't been for Draco's reassurance, they'd been for his own.

Silence stretches between them. Draco looks back out the window. The last traces of sunset are fading from the sky, and the canopy of the Forbidden Forest is edged with pale blues and violets under a waning moon.

"I have your birthday present," Professor Snape says suddenly, and Draco looks back at him. He had almost forgotten it was his birthday at all. Professor Snape reaches into his robe and produces a large parchment, rolled, magically sealed – whatever it is, it's clearly an important and official document. "Here."

Draco takes it carefully, taps it with his finger to open the magical seal, and slowly unrolls the parchment.

"LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT" is written across the top and something deep inside Draco's chest grips itself tightly.

"What—" Draco begins.

"I have named you and Harry inheritors of my estate," Professor Snape says, with a serenity that Draco finds astonishing.

"Professor," he breathes, "you can't possibly—"

"You two are the closest I will ever come to having children," he says before Draco can finish. "I know that the news of your mother's pregnancy has hit you hard. I know that you miss your parents, though you won't admit it. I know being away from them has been difficult for you."

Draco's eyes burn. He stares at the words on the parchment, though they start to blur together.

"I know family has always meant more to you than you ever would have said aloud, and I want you to know, Draco," he says, "that family is not limited to blood. I consider you, in every capacity, both practical and legal, my son. I consider the same of Harry. You _are_ my family, Draco, and I don't want you to ever forget that."

"Professor," he says, though the word is soft. Draco finds he can barely speak.

"Whatever happens at the Third Task," Professor Snape continues, more urgently, reaching out and gripping Draco's arm, "whatever the outcome of this war, I do not want you to ever forget that. I love you and I will always love you."

Draco's hands are shaking so badly that he drops the will. He bends forward and buries himself in Professor Snape, in his soft and familiar scent of reagents and salves, curling into him as he enfolds Draco into his arms. Any pretense of holding back tears shatters and he lies trembling and sobbing in his godfather's embrace.

"I'm scared," Draco whispers, choking on the words. "I'm so scared. I feel powerless."

"I know," Professor Snape returns. "I know, Draco. If I thought I could do this for you I would do so in a heartbeat. You are so young… so very young…"

Professor Snape's voice is taut, and he stops speaking. Instead he kisses the top of Draco's head and holds him more tightly, and it is not all right, nothing is all right, Draco is frightened and must risk his life and betray his best friend and he must do it all, in the end, alone—

—but for now, it is enough. In his godfather's arms, calmed but not comforted, warmed but not fearless, it is enough, it is enough.


	41. 24 June, 1995 - Part 1

_I could conceive death, but I could not conceive betrayal._  
Malcolm X

* * *

Draco should announce his presence, but he enters the tent sees Harry strapping on his padded leathers, and he is paralyzed, though he isn't sure by what. Fear, maybe? Guilt? Dread?

Eventually, Harry turns to grab his belt and sees Draco. He gives a start, but soon he's smiling and it tears the heart right out of Draco's chest.

"Hey," he says. "Come to wish me good luck?"

The thrum of the crowd, the heat of the young Scottish summer – it's all muted by the thick canvas of the tent. For Draco, it is isolating; it separates him from the world, but only makes him closer to his deeds. He fingers the small vial in his pocket and, for the first time in his life, hates himself.

"Draco?" Harry continues when Draco doesn't answer.

For what Draco knows are entirely selfish reasons, he strides across the tent, tangles his fingers in Harry's hair, and kisses him. If their kisses are usually lightning, this one is a ground wire. It catches lightning and buries it deep, keeping it safe. It is strong and simple and foundational and wonderful in its own way. Draco commits it to memory, because there is some part of him that knows it may be the last kiss he ever shares with Harry.

Harry's hands are on Draco's hips, and he withdraws a few inches to open his eyes and study Draco's face. "Draco," he says, and Draco silences him with another kiss.

"Don't," Draco says. "Please, don't speak. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Harry's green eyes are soft, and the hands on Draco's hips slip around to the small of his back to pull him closer. Draco rests his forehead on Harry's and shuts his eyes, breathing in cedar and soap.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Draco says. He tries to keep his voice even, but his heartache and desperation and fear seep through the cracks.

"Sorry? Sorry about what?"

"This is the only way," he says. "God knows you never would have agreed to it if I'd tried to do it honestly. You wouldn't want me putting myself in danger." He smiles, but there's no joy in it. "We're both so ready to leap at death for each other, yet unwilling to let the other do the same. The irony of the situation isn't lost on me."

There is a steadily growing look of alarm on Harry's face. He withdraws from Draco. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't ever ask you to really forgive me, but the selfish part of me desperately hopes you do—"

"_Draco,_" Harry says sharply. "Draco, what are you talking about?"

"You'll work it out soon enough," Draco says, voice wan and miserable. "The sedative will be kicking in any second now."

"_Sedative?_"

"The only thing we can be sure the Dark Lord wants from this competition is you, and we can't give it to him," Draco says, watching with sad eyes as Harry puts a hand to his forehead and starts to stagger.

"What – Draco, what have you done—?"

"It will wear off in a few hours," Draco assures him.

Harry buckles and Draco lunges to catch him before he falls to his knees. Draco can see the fight in his eyes as he valiantly, desperately tries to battle the sedative, and it kills him. Draco lowers him onto the squashy cot against the wall of the tent.

"Draco," Harry says, "you can't…"

"I'm sorry," Draco whispers, and he is. His guilt is so heavy it feels like he might be crushed beneath it. "I'm so sorry, Harry."

"Draco—"

Draco stares down at him until Harry drops off entirely. He watches the muscles in Harry's face relax one by one, until Draco would have thought him asleep in another situation. Draco's eyes burn and his throat is tight but he will not cry. He must not. There is no time.

He strips the padded leathers off Harry's body and pulls them on one by one, ignoring the dreadful pain in his chest. They are a size too big – Harry always did have a few inches on him – but it doesn't matter. When he's dressed, he pulls the vial from his pocket and rolls it in his palm.

He plucks a single hair from Harry's head and adds it to the colorless Polyjuice potion. It promptly turns a bright, vibrant green.

Draco's eyes move from the potion and down to Harry, now in just his plain shirt and trousers, unconscious on the cot. He does not cry. He must not cry.

He downs the potion in one swallow. Three minutes later, he's pulling Harry's glasses off his face and walking out into the sunlight to the sound of low, rhythmic chanting – _Potter! Potter! Potter!_


	42. 24 June, 1995 - Part 2

_We learn little from victory, much from defeat.  
_Japanese proverb

* * *

Draco makes it to the center of the labyrinth and the first thing that enters his mind is _there is no way it's that simple_.

But there it is – gold and gleaming and impressive, the trophy rests on a raised dais in the middle of the clearing. It's not as though the Third Task hadn't been a challenge – there were a few tight spots, though nothing that Draco couldn't handle – but he'd been going through the entire process expecting, _waiting_, for the other shoe to drop.

Because he _knows_ that this is the apex of the Dark Lord's plan. He entered Harry into it for a reason, and nothing had happened in the first two tasks, so whatever he was intending had to come now. But Draco had made it through, and now here he was, staring at the proverbial finish line, tense and terrified of everything that had not happened.

Draco gives another cursory look around the clearing. Has he been overthinking this? Is the Dark Lord's plan only tangential to the Triwizard Tournament? Had Draco overlooked something vital?

With his wand-hand flexing at his side, Draco moves up toward the dais. A quick diagnostic spell tells him that there's no curse on the trophy, itself, just the portkey magic that Draco expects to take him back to the outside of the labyrinth. Is that really it? Is it really so simple?

Draco takes another swig of the Polyjuice potion to top him off and, after pocketing the vial, grabs hold of the handle of the trophy and—

—lands in a graveyard?

_Danger._ This is dangerous. Draco knows that before he knows where he is or why he's here. At once he is on edge, chastising himself. _Obvious_. He should have seen this, should have known—

"There's the man of the hour."

Draco whirls and drops the trophy in the brittle, drying grass, and standing several feet away, twisted and gnarled—

"Professor Moody?"

A crooked smile greets him. Draco watches him finger his wand. Professor Moody's stance is sure, ready to attack. Both eyes – normal and magical – are transfixed on him.

"That's not possible," Draco says, and Professor Moody's smile turns slightly sour. "No, that's not possible. You were a member of the Order of the Phoenix during the first campaign, you can't possibly—"

Before Draco can finish the sentence, Professor Moody is throwing out a hex that Draco only just manages to deflect. He follows it up with two spells cast simultaneously, which is a damn smart move, because there's no counterspell to keep both away, and Draco goes flying back until he lands hard on the ground and goes rolling across the grass.

The pain from the spell that hit him comes slowly at first, then all at once – a bloodfire hex, his mind supplies, that landed hard enough to send him flying and sends terrible, burning pain through his veins. All Draco can do is scream, writhing on the ground, his vision gray with agony.

"Geniuses," Professor Moody says disparagingly. "Strike when they're thinking and they fall like a house of cards."

The magic intensifies and _oh, Merlin,_ it hurts, it hurts so terribly and eclipsingly that Draco can't _think_, he can't even _see_, he needs to get out – his panic button – where's—?

He stuffs a hand into his pocket—

"Ah-ah-ah."

There's a boot that steps down on his wrist, pinning it into the soft dirt and dry grass. A quick, wordless spell, and he can feel it slipping out of his pocket. It flies up into Professor Moody's outstretched hand. Draco makes a strangled sound and tries to grab for it, but the pain is still burning and intense.

"This is a clever little thing," Professor Moody says as he turns it over in his hands. "Did you make this yourself, Malfoy?"

Draco grits his teeth. His breath comes out in fits and starts. How does he—?

"What's the matter?" Professor Moody croons. "Surprised I know? You shouldn't be. Did you really think we hadn't taken this into account from the _start?_ Did you think we weren't ten steps ahead of you from the word 'go'?"

Draco's fingers twitch in careful patterns and as he lies inert in the grass he manages, just barely, to dispel the bloodfire hex. The pain evaporates but the terror remains, and it's nearly as bad.

"_Geniuses,_" Professor Moody says again, more loudly, more viciously. "You leave them around ordinary people long enough and they start forgetting that there are those who might challenge them—!"

Draco abruptly casts the strongest propulsion spell he can and Professor Moody goes flying. Draco scrambles to his feet and races for the trophy—

There's a dreadful _crack_ of magic that catches Draco mid-sprint and he falls onto his side, more pain screaming through him, this time focused to his side. Heat and wetness fountains from beneath his leathers and Draco is pulled, pulled – he scrabbles for the trophy but it is bare inches out of his grasp, and he is dragged away.

"You _are_ quick," Professor Moody says, rasping through his teeth. "That trick might have worked on someone else."

Tendrils of Dark Magic snake around him, pick him up, throw him forward and before he knows what's happening he is being bound to a large slab of stone – a tombstone, some part of him recognizes – and Professor Moody is leering down at him.

"You're not escaping," he snarls, and Draco groans from the terrible pain in his side. "I have worked too hard – sacrificed too much—"

Another _crack_ of magic and Draco suddenly feels constricted, breathless – there is a dreadful, suffocating aura surrounding him. When Draco tries to dispel the tendrils of Dark Magic binding him, he realizes that the aura is a muting spell, designed to keep him from casting magic, and the fear in him redoubles.

"You did a good job with the Polyjuice potion," Professor Moody says, hobbling a few feet away – Draco's propulsion spell must have hit him in the leg, because he's limping – toward a small bundle of black fabric. "I would know. A bad Polyjuice leaves signs, but a good one is completely untraceable."

Despite everything, Draco works it out. "You're not Professor Moody," he croaks, the pain in his side making it hard to speak.

"Here's the thing about a Polyjuice potion," he continues, hobbling several feet further with the bundle of black cloth, and suddenly Draco sees a cauldron, full of poisonous-looking blue liquid, next to a dug-up grave. "The magic in it isn't superficial. It's not an illusory potion that only changes the surface. That's why it requires a sample – it rewrites your entire genetic make-up."

Draco stares at him uncomprehendingly. It's too much information too quickly. What is in the cauldron? What is that bundle of fabric? Why do genetics matter? Draco's mind roars as he tries to make sense of all the clues laid before him.

"The only thing it doesn't touch is your mind. Right now, every other part of you is, for all intents and purposes, Harry Potter. His flesh, his bone. His blood."

Professor Moody drops the bundle of black fabric into the blue liquid and hunches over the massive cauldron, shoulders stooped.

"Blood is all that we need."

It all clicks into place at that moment – blood, Horcruxes, Dark Magic, _no, no, no, no,_ what has he done, what has Draco done—

"_Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son._"

Silvery-white dust rises up from the dug-up grave and Draco struggles against the Dark Magic holding him, _no, no, no, Merlin, please no,_ how could have have done this, he gave them exactly what they wanted—

Professor Moody produces a long dagger from his robe. "_Flesh of the servant, willingly given,_" he hisses, and there's a dreadful slicing and snapping and a spray of blood, but he doesn't even move, his severed hand falls into the cauldron and his eyes are transfixed on the surface of the liquid, "_you will revive your master._"

Draco wants to scream, but there would be no use in it. The binding Dark Magic holds him firm against the tombstone and Draco's breath comes out as terrible wheezing.

"_Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken…_"

He staggers toward Draco; there is no pain on Professor Moody's – or whoever is imitating Professor Moody's – face, but the stump of his left hand is still bleeding profusely, and the blood loss has clearly taken its toll. The dagger digs into Draco's arm and he cries out in pain, and all he can think is _no, no, no, no, no._

"_... you will resurrect your foe._"

There's a wet sound, and then so much blinding white light, and Draco is undone. He did this, he let this happen, how could he have been so _stupid_—

He screws his eyes shut and he lies trembling against the stone. Time passes, he is not sure how much. He trembles and dares not open his eyes.

Eventually—

"You have done well, Bartemius."

The voice is high, clear – terrifying. It chills Draco to his core and he does not – cannot – open his eyes to look upon its source.

"Thank you, Master."

"You always were a cut above the rest," he says. "And loyal to the last. You came when I called you."

"Always, Master."

"You balanced so much these past months. I am proud of you."

"Thank you, Master."

"And then…"

Draco does not need to open his eyes. He can _feel_ the gaze burning into him. All Draco can do is sit, and shake, and curse himself.

"Well, well, well. Draco Malfoy. This is a meeting long overdue."

There comes the sound of rustling grass and the whisper of robes.

"Open your eyes, Malfoy. Your fears will not go away just because you cannot see them."

It takes a concentrated effort of will, but he opens his eyes – at once, he wishes he hadn't. The face in front of him is just like the one Harry had described as having seen in his dreams – a white, skull-like head, red eyes, slit-shaped nostrils, and a set of wide, gleaming teeth. He is thin, with hands like spiders, and he is crouched in front of Draco with what he can only assume is a smile.

"So brilliant but so fragile. You know who I am."

Draco cannot find his voice. He feels paralyzed by the weight of his own fear.

"Tell me who I am, Malfoy."

"Voldemort." It comes out as little more than a shaking, fearful breath.

White lips pull back from those gleaming teeth.

"I admit that I could not have anticipated anyone like you working against me," he says. "When that simpering fool Quirrel told me he had been ousted by an eleven-year-old, I almost killed him for lying to me so brazenly…"

One of those spider-like hands reaches out and grabs Draco by the chin. He makes a small, weak sound that is equal parts surprise and terror; he tries to recoil from the grip but the cold fingers hold him firm.

"But that's the thing about people like us, Malfoy," he says. "We learn _very_ quickly."

Draco jerks his head again, managing to free himself from the cold fingers.

"And now here we are!" he continues, rising suddenly to his feet, his black robe whirling around him, staring out into the darkened graveyard. "Any minute now, my followers will be returning to me. I wonder who among them will be brave enough to come? Who will be foolish enough to hide? Questions soon to be answered."

He looks back at Draco, his pale, oblong head canting to one side, his livid red eyes gleaming.

"But then there's the question of what to do with _you_."

The fear in him intensifies for a terrible moment. "You'll kill me," Draco says, and it's not quite a question. He'll kill him, and Draco will die, having betrayed his best friend and failed utterly to do the only thing that would have made the betrayal worthwhile.

"_Kill_ you?" the Dark Lord repeats, feigning astonishment. "What, and waste all that _potential?_ All that _genius?_ Bartemius!"

Professor Moody – Bartemius – hurries over to his side. He's pale from blood loss but seems determined to overcome it by sheer force of will. "Master?"

"Give me my wand."

At once, he produces it from his robe. The Dark Lord takes it and, without preamble, points it directly at Draco's face.

"I would never be so wasteful as to you kill you, Malfoy," the Dark Lord says, and with a blinding jolt of pain, Draco's world goes dark.


	43. 26 June, 1995

**Author's Note:** HEY, GUYS! Remember that big, scary trigger warning I put way back at the first chapter about how this story will eventually get very dark and grisly? That shit starts in this chapter.

Just to be perfectly clear: if there is _any chance at all_ that you might be triggered or otherwise profoundly uncomfortable with fairly intense descriptions of torture and gore, for the love of Cthulhu, do not continue reading this story. I am super duper serious. It starts bad and gets worse. Please read at your own discretion!

**Update:** Several readers on both FFN and AO3 have expressed some concerns about reading these chapters. In what I hope will help, I've written a short play-by-play of chapters 43-46 (which have the worst of the troubling/triggering material) and posted it on Pastebin. The goal is to give readers who might be sensitive to some of the darker themes a way to be kept up-to-date with the plot while avoiding anything that might cause unfriendly reactions.

Read the Pastebin play-by-play for chapters 43-46: pastebin dot com slash 559aKcJB

* * *

_It is very hard for evil to take hold of the unconsenting soul._  
Ursula K. Le Guin

* * *

And then he awakes with a spasm and a sharp intake of breath.

"Welcome back."

Before he has full reign of his kinesthesia he is aware of a dulled pain in his side and another in his arm. At once, his mind goes back – the Triwizard Tournament, the trophy, the graveyard—

"My apologies for keeping you out so long. Special accommodations had to be made."

He tries to bring one hand to his side, only to find that something cold and metal is holding him by both wrists. He blinks open his heavy eyes and finds that he is shackled to a stone floor by heavy iron manacles. His heart starts to race.

"After all, you're hardly just any prisoner, are you?"

The room is wide and dark and cold, and Draco's eyes need a moment to adjust. There are two figures, both tall and spare, standing near the opposite wall. There is just one torch, and they stand in front of it, shrouding them in their own shadows. Draco swallows, knowing precisely who they are.

"Do you know why you were brought here?"

Draco doesn't answer. He can't. There is terror in him that runs bone deep, that would paralyze him completely were it not for the unconquerable shaking.

The taller of the two figures glides forward, and a deep and visceral shudder runs the length of Draco's body as the grim, skull-like face of Lord Voldemort comes into focus. His heart slams in his chest and the skin at the back of his neck prickles.

"So very, very fragile," the Dark Lord whispers, crouching down to Draco's level where he is sagged against the wall, arms shackled to the floor. "Like a little bird."

This close, every feature of his face is visible in absolute detail. The chalk white skin stretched over fine bones, the bright red eyes, the slatted nose, the cracked lips. Draco cannot look away despite how desperately he wants to. Somewhere in his throat there is a scream of terror trying to escape, but it can't. Like everything else in him, it is paralyzed with fear.

"Do you understand why I am doing this, little bird?"

Draco does. He wishes he didn't, but he does. With absolute, devastating, soul-crushing clarity, he does.

"You are an enemy I cannot afford and an ally I cannot spare," he says, and he sounds almost ruminative. "With anyone else, a simple Imperius would be more than enough… but then, Bartemius was good enough to test the spell on you and you, little bird, were strong enough to break it."

Draco cannot stand to look at him a second longer. He screws his eyes shut, but his presence is all-encompassing, persistent and oppressive, like winter wind that bites through the thickest cloak.

"Intellectual clarity and mental fortitude," the Dark Lord says. "Your genius gives you both in spades and makes you particularly resilient. Therefore the question changes. How can I strip away your intellectual clarity and mental fortitude without risking your genius?"

The words curl low in Draco's stomach, absorbing all the heat from him.

The Dark Lord bends forward, leaning close to him – so close Draco can smell him, smell the Dark Magic that ripples off him like foul cologne—

"Answer my question, little bird," he says, softly, dangerously, and Draco makes a broken sound.

"Torture," Draco says, hanging his head and trying to breathe through the fear that is collapsing his ribs.

"_Torture,_" he repeats, "precisely. Of course, with the Cruciatus curse out of the question in a magical lockdown room such as this, our options are somewhat unrefined and a great deal… messier."

A sob rips its way out of Draco's throat. His mind is filling with possibilities that he cannot will away.

"But don't worry, little bird. Bartemius, here, does have quite a bit of experience with torture and an intellect that rivals your own. I'm sure he'll be able to come up with something fast and effective that breaks down all those walls. It will be over before you know it."

Draco hates himself for crying but he cannot stop. The Dark Lord rises to his full composure, and Draco can hear him turn around.

"Nothing that might hinder him when he comes to work for us," he says shortly, "but other than that, be as creative as you like."

"Yes, Master."

Footsteps, then, as the Dark Lord walks toward and opens a heavy door with rusty hinges.

"Oh, and Bartemius?"

"Master?"

A pause, then— "Keep him pretty," he says. "I rather like him pretty."

"Of course, Master."

Another squeal of hinges and a dreadful, resounding crash as the door slams shut. The silence it leaves behind is an open wound in the dark dampness of the cell. Draco does not open his eyes. He does not move. He sits, and he sobs, and he feels his hope die.

There's another moment of silence, followed by the rustle of thick canvas and the heavy _clunk_ of something hitting the floor. Draco hears Bartemius rummage through something. There are dreadful and ominous clicks of metal and the sliding of leather. Draco does not look up, he dares not.

"Times like this," Bartemius says, sounding almost conversational, "I wish your aunt were here. Your Aunt Bellatrix – remember her?"

Draco does not answer.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he says. "She was always the creative one when it came to torture. People think it was just the Cruciatus curse that drove the Longbottoms to insanity, but I was there and I can tell you that the Cruciatus was hardly used at all. Some of the things she did…" He whistles. "Masterful. She _broke_ them, inside and out. It was a thing of beauty to behold. Like art."

Draco screws his eyes even more tightly shut.

"So I just want you to know," Bartemius says, "over the next few weeks, when you're screaming in agony and wondering who on earth could come up with something that could cause so much pain – it was your aunt."

There is a sudden, violent jolt of pain in his side, and four metal claws are digging into the still-healing wound over his ribs and they _twist_, and Draco _screams_ – it's a scream that rips up his throat in an instant, that shreds him, and the barbs keep _twisting_ and Draco screams and screams and hot blood fountains down his side and he can feel his ribs bending and cracking and his vision goes grey—

—the metal barbs retract and Draco collapses forward onto the floor, the metal chains slowing his descent. He lies wheezing on his side, shaking, lifeblood pumping down across his stomach and pooling beneath him—

"Bit of a screamer, aren't you?" His voice is strangely jocular, manic, strung taut to a fever pitch, and Draco can barely hear him for the pain still screaming through his body. "I'd save my voice if I were you. We're only just getting started!"


	44. 3 July, 1995

_Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light._  
Dylan Thomas

* * *

Draco has never been able to reconcile the idea of a deity – any deity – existing in a universe so vast and chaotic. He has always held religion in the same regard as he holds mythology: fascinating from an anthropological standpoint, steeped in rich history and profound import, but fundamentally a work of human imagination.

But he knows, beyond any semblance of skeptical, atheistic doubt, that he is in hell.

He knows it is hell in the same way he knows up and down. It's not really a matter of discussion, it just _is_. Up is above, down is below, and Draco is in hell.

In fairness, it doesn't seem to be any sort of particularly religious hell. It's far worse than that, because it is not the creation of omniscient, omnipotent beings. It's all just people, whose unfathomable cruelty and ingenious sadism would make the Devil of the Abrahamic religions shudder in revulsion.

He has not slept for days (or at least he thinks it's been days – his cell has no windows and he is not fed with any regularity, so the passage of time is impossible to track). The best he gets are moments when the pain becomes too intense and he loses consciousness. Even then, he will sometimes be woken up with a bucket of freezing cold water.

He is not healed, and there is much on him that needs healing. Burns, sores, open wounds, abrasions, broken bones, infections. He is force fed just enough vitality potion to keep him alive, to stimulate blood regeneration, to stymie the worst festering wounds, but he is otherwise left without. Bleeding, aching, wasting away.

In the beginning, Draco begged. He screamed no, please, stop, mercy. He knew – some part of him had always known – that it would make no difference, but it is a reflex that only went away with time. Gradually, diminishing. Like everything else.

Draco does not beg anymore. Draco is done. He screams when he is in pain, he sobs when it is too much, he whimpers when Bartemius enters with the barbed whip or the rake or the hot irons or the needles, but he does not beg. There is nothing. Nothing to beg for, nothing to reason with.

There is just nothing. Not anymore.

A door opens. Draco does not lift his head. He is calculating happy primes in his head, which is just about the only thing he can do to keep his mind away from the darkness that encroaches from all sides. It is taking longer lately.

"Hm."

It's a different voice. Draco can't place it immediately, though it's not as if it matters, anyway, not really. Nothing does.

"I thought I told him to keep you pretty."

Oh, Draco thinks. It's Lord Voldemort. That's different.

He still does not lift his head. He couldn't even if he wanted to. The skin of his back is open and bloody from Bartemius's recent experimentation with the barbed whip.

"Sit upright."

It seems absolutely impossible. He moves his hands across the floor, and the metal chains rattle as they're pulled over the stone. He tries to brace himself so he can push up into a sitting position, but it's no use. He's weak from hunger and blood loss. He can barely keep his eyes open.

A sigh. "Tedious."

The sound of footsteps, and then Draco is seized by the hair and pulled upright. Pain screams out across his back and Draco cries out in agony, vision swimming and wounds splitting open again. The pain is so abrupt and all-encompassing that he doesn't even notice that something is fastened around his neck until after the fact.

When the hand releases him, Draco collapses again, trembling and weak. There is a definite heaviness around his neck, and with a shaking hand he reaches up and touches it.

It seems to be a large metal collar with a hinge. It's snug around his throat, unornamented by the feel of it, and cold as ice.

"Bartemius has given his diagnosis. He deems you ready. This is the last piece, one that will ensure long-term effectiveness."

Draco has no idea what he means. His mind is too heavy with pain.

"_Imperio._"

It is still very much like a drug-induced delirium. In the back of his mind, Draco recalls hating the sensation when he first experienced it – but after so many days of endless agony, delirium is a big step up. His body relaxes. The pain dulls. He feels, for the first time in quite some time, like he might actually be able to fall asleep.

"Stand up."

_STAND UP_, echoes the voice in Draco's mind.

Draco stands. It is easy to stand. He is still shackled to the floor, but the chains allow him just enough leeway to rise to his full composure.

"Open your eyes."

_OPEN YOUR EYES._

Had they been closed? Draco had scarcely noticed. Everything is so very hazy and uncoordinated and nice. He opens his eyes. Lord Voldemort is standing across from him, robed in black, and Draco is not afraid. Draco feels nothing at all. He has not been told to feel anything.

"So obedient, little bird."

Draco is pleased. He is not sure why. He smiles deliriously.

"Give me your hands."

_GIVE ME YOUR HANDS._

As far as the chains will allow, he stretches his arms out toward him. The Dark Lord steps forward and produces a ring of keys from his robe, with which he unlocks the shackles around his wrists. They fall to the floor with two loud, startling clatters, but Draco does not jump. He stares down at his hands, still outstretched, at the red, raw, blistered skin of his wrists.

"Follow me."

_FOLLOW ME._

He opens the heavy iron door and walks out. Draco follows. He is lightheaded, and when he comes into the light of the hallway, he is strangely startled.

His surroundings are familiar, but he can't quite tell from where. He follows him down the corridor and into another room.

It has a large, spelled window that fills it with magical daylight. It has a desk and an armoire made of handsome mahogany. It has a _bed_. The bed looks _wonderful_, so soft and inviting with blue sheets, and Draco wants nothing more than to collapse on it and fall asleep for days—

"Do you like this room?"

Draco opens his mouth, but all he can manage is a soft, hoarse sound. He's done nothing but scream for so long, his voice is mostly gone.

The Dark Lord swoops toward him and presses his wand to Draco's throat, just above the heavy metal collar. At once, the pain subsides and Draco takes a deep, refreshing breath.

He smiles at Draco, and it is all teeth.

"Yes," Draco says. "Yes, I like this room very much."

"Good," the Dark Lord responds. "This room is yours if you pass your first test."

Draco does not understand. The Dark Lord gestures behind Draco, toward the door from whence they just arrived, and Draco turns.

At first, Draco is sure he is hallucinating.

"Professor Snape?"

He is ashen white, more so than usual, with a tenseness in his shoulders and a tremor in his hands. He is staring at Draco as though he is only barely controlling his desire to scream.

"Your godfather," the Dark Lord says from behind, "was one of the first in the graveyard when I returned. In these ensuing weeks, he has become invaluable to me. He is very close to many of our enemies. I am sure he will be very useful."

Draco's brow knits. All of a sudden, the sleepy delirium of the Imperius curse feels uncomfortable.

"I understand you are very close," says the Dark Lord, almost crooning. "I'm sure this is difficult for you, Severus."

"Yes, My Lord," Professor Snape manages. His voice is hoarse and tight.

"But it is for a very good cause. Surely you see the value of having young Mr. Malfoy, here, on our side."

"Yes, My Lord." It has precisely the same inflection as the last time he said it.

"Little bird…"

Two spider-like hands rest on Draco's shoulders. A shiver grips him, and the motion of it sets off little sparks of pain down his spine. Draco fights through them.

"... this is your first test."

"I don't understand," Draco says.

"I need to know that this curse will hold, even when my orders are unpalatable," the Dark Lord says. He is speaking very closely to Draco's ear. Draco can smell Dark Magic. "I need to know you will truly obey."

"I…"

"Cast the Cruciatus curse."

_CAST THE CRUCIATUS CURSE._

Draco is seized with sudden terror. The Cruciatus curse? On _Professor Snape?_

"No—" Draco stammers, "—no, I can't—!"

Right at that moment, there is a sharp pricking sensation on his neck, beneath the snug metal collar. Something stabs him shallowly over his carotid artery and—

"—nnn_nhaaaaaggghnnnnn—!_"

—it is like _fire_, liquid fire under his skin, boiling and blinding, an incredible and intense pain, as bad as anything he'd endured under Bartemius. At once, Draco collapses onto his knees, then onto all fours, and the liquid fire spreads ever wider.

"Oh, little bird," the Dark Lord sighs, voice mild, "did you think the collar was just a metaphor?"

Draco is in so much pain that his vision tunnels momentarily. He is in so much pain that he forgets how to speak.

"It's all right, Draco," Professor Snape says suddenly. "_It's all right._ Draco – look at me—"

"That burning you felt was a drop – just a drop – of venom from my familiar, Nagini," the Dark Lord interjects. "The collar is spelled to administer one drop every time you resist my Imperius curse."

The pain is still radiating through Draco's body in gradually lessening waves. Draco is only barely able to understand.

"It is a very potent venom, as you can tell," he continues. "Disobey too frequently and I cannot promise the dosage will be survivable."

Draco struggles to catch up with his breath. His addled mind, still so broken and hazy from abuse, spins as it works – he could never – he could _never_ – not on Professor Snape—

"_Cast the Cruciatus curse._"

_CAST THE CRUCIATUS CURSE_, repeats the voice in his head and _no, no, Draco will not torture Professor Snape, he must not—_

"_Aaaaggghnnnnhhnn—!_"

Liquid fire, deadly venom, pain, God, so much pain, it hurts, it is unbearable, Draco screams and burns and it is too much, far too much—

"Draco, it's all right!" Professor Snape's voice is desperate. "I have survived worse, Draco, _please_, just do it, _do it_, Draco, do not fight him!"

"Do it, little bird."

_DO IT. DO IT. DO IT._

Draco hurts so much. Too much. It is all too much. He doesn't have any fight left. There is nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Draco, please, it's all right, it's all right…"

_DO IT. DO IT NOW. DO IT NOW._

Draco lifts his head. He can barely see through all the tears. Professor Snape is kneeling in front of him, stooped, the gait of a man who wants to help but is afraid of hurting. Draco's mind is full of memories, Professor Snape teaching him differential calculus, Professor Snape explaining Newtonian physics, Professor Snape buying him his first telescope, sharing birthday cake, telling Draco he loves him—

_DO IT NOW DO IT NOW DO IT NOW DO IT NOW._

Draco sobs. It hurts so badly. The memories pulse in time with the venom surging through his veins. "Professor."

"It's all right," Professor Snape whispers. "Draco, it's all right, please, don't fight it."

He extends his hand. His treacherous hand, his shaking hand, his bloodied, broken, blistered hand, he splays his fingers.

"Professor," he says again, sobbing, voice choked.

"It's all right," Professor Snape says, "it's all right."

It is not all right and Draco knows it. He sobs again. The word sticks in his throat before he manages, "_Crucio._"

The scream that follows brings a pain far worse than the venom ever could.

And there is nothing, nothing, nothing.


	45. 8 July, 1995

_There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts._  
Neil Gaiman

* * *

What surprises Draco most is the self-awareness of it all.

Perhaps his mind, rational to the last, just can't make sense of it any other way. Draco _knows_ he is under the Imperius curse. He knows that he is acting profoundly out-of-character. He knows that he should be frantic, horrified, guilty, frightened by the things he is forced to do.

But he is not any of those things, because he is under the Imperius curse. It's a closed, neat little cycle that explains itself.

Bartemius brings him ingredients and a cauldron and tells him to brew distilled essence of nightshade, one of the deadliest poisons in the world. Draco knows that it will be used to kill people. He brews it anyway.

Avery brings him a map of Azkaban and asks him to devise a way inside. Draco knows the plan will be used to release war criminals. He comes up with it anyway.

In the beginning he resisted. Some little piece of himself that the curse did not touch fought back, telling him _no, this is wrong, this goes against every moral fiber in your body_. And Draco would be stung with venom and he would scream with pain. And then that part of him would be quiet.

Everything he does is still menial, of course. Draco is still locked up in his room with the bed and magical window at all hours because they are waiting to make sure that the curse has fully settled and that Draco will not disobey. Honestly, Draco's just glad for the break.

He sleeps, he eats properly and regularly, he bathes, he heals, he puts on some of the weight he lost, he even manages to do some basic exercises. The memories of torture are still fresh and vivid and raw in his mind and some nights he wakes up screaming, his head full of ripping flesh and needles in his skin and hot iron on his back.

Sometimes he wishes Professor Snape was there to help him make sense of it. Other times he does not.

Either way, Professor Snape does not show up. Draco wonders why.

Every night, Lord Voldemort visits him and they speak. He seems to like Draco. Draco is not sure how to feel about that. It was strange at first, talking casually to the Dark Lord, the most feared man in the world, but it became easier. Their conversations are surprisingly intelligent and candid. Lord Voldemort, as it turns out, is a gifted conversationalist.

Sometimes they speak about magical theory, sometimes about current events. Once, they spent nearly two hours discussing Nietzschean nihilism and its practical implications on everyday life. His intelligence and perceptiveness astonishes Draco.

And Draco is rather surprised to find himself looking forward to the visits. He doesn't talk to anyone else, after all, and he does get a little lonely.

"I think you're nearly ready for your final test," he says one evening, sitting neatly at Draco's desk chair as Draco brushes his hair by the vanity. "It's been quite some time since you've had a taste of Nagini's milk."

"Three days," Draco confirms. He looks in the vanity mirror at the collar. It is made of heavy silver-plated iron. It took several days for Draco to get used to the weight of it around his neck.

The Dark Lord rises to his feet and crosses the room, coming to stand behind Draco. In the slight warping of the mirror, he seems even more impossibly tall and thin. He lifts one hand and strokes it through Draco's hair.

He has been doing that a lot – stroking Draco's hair. It makes Draco think of Harry, who did the same, but the similarities end quite abruptly. Harry's hands are warm and calloused. Voldemort's are cold and smooth, like marble.

Sometimes Draco wishes Harry were here. Mostly he does not.

"All of my orders up till now have been short-term," the Dark Lord says as he idly pets at Draco's hair. "I have one simple long-term order."

Draco watches him silently.

"Be loyal to me."

_BE LOYAL TO ME,_ the voice in Draco's head repeats. _MY GOALS ARE YOUR GOALS. MY ENEMIES ARE YOUR ENEMIES. PUT NO ONE AND NOTHING ABOVE ME._

In Draco's next breath, it is so. In Draco's next breath, the only thing in the world that matters to him is the Dark Lord's rise to power.

"Are you ready for your last test?"

"Yes, My Lord."

A smile curves onto the Dark Lord's pale lips.

"Supplicant is a good look on you, little bird. _Nott!_"

There's a muffled consternation on the other side of the heavy door. Shouting, thumping, screaming.

"If you pass this test, little bird," the Dark Lord says, his long fingers carding through Draco's hair, "I will give you the Mark and have you at my side. If you pass this test, you will earn my trust. Do you want that, little bird?"

And he _does_. He does so badly it physically hurts that he does not have it all right now. "Yes, My Lord," he says, softly, staring intensely at his reflection, at the gleaming red eyes. "Very much."

The Dark Lord makes a small, low sound. The fingers in Draco's hair curl slightly. "There was a time… it feels like so long ago… that you would have evoked quite a marked reaction in me, little bird."

Draco thinks he understands, but he does not dare presume. "What reaction is that, My Lord?"

The hand in Draco's hair stills, then retracts. Draco feels strangely bereft. "How dreadfully maudlin of me," he drawls.

Right at that moment, the door slams open and Draco hears a high, feminine scream. He turns toward the source of the sound.

His mother, hugely pregnant and thrashing, is pulled into the room by Avery and Nott.

Draco feels nothing but surprise.

"This is your final test," the Dark Lord says. "Tie her to the wall."

Avery and Nott do just that, ignoring the way his mother thrashes and kicks and screams, with a series of simple but strong spells that bind her arms above her head. Her hair is mussed and her make-up is smudged.

"_Let her go, let her go,_" screams a voice – and quite to Draco's surprise, he recognizes it as his father's – from beyond. Draco can see him through the door, held back by two others, reaching out toward her. "_My Lord, please have mercy – Narcissa!_"

"And shut the door," the Dark Lord says impatiently.

"No! _No! Narcissa!_"

"Lucius!" his mother sobs, and Avery flicks his wand. The door slams shut.

"I noticed the memory charms, by the way," the Dark Lord says to Draco. His voice is easy, casual, as though he were remarking on the weather. Narcissa collapses into frantic sobbing, her hair covering her face. "Masterful work. Very thorough job. It's a wonder you managed to keep it up so long, considering their numerous connections to the outside world."

"I…" Draco is staring at his mother. He can't stop staring at her. She is sobbing. She is so extremely _pregnant_. She must be at least two weeks past her due date, by Draco's estimation.

There is something small in the back of Draco's mind that twists uncomfortably.

"Still, for the purposes of the test, it would not do to keep it up."

The Dark Lord moves toward her, and Narcissa cries and quails before him, muttering things like _please_ and _no_ and _my baby_. He pays attention to none of it. He produces his wand from his sleeve and puts it to her forehead, and with a soft spell, removes the memory charm.

Her sobbing hitches a moment; her eyes glaze slightly as the spellwork crumbles around her.

Draco's mouth is half-open. The little something in his mind is twisting with more strength, making him more uncomfortable.

Her eyes refocus, moving past the Dark Lord and landing on—

"Draco." The word is hoarse, broken. "Draco – _Draco!_"

Draco jerks. He is startled. His hands are trembling. He does not feel anything. Except perhaps uncomfortable. He feels very uncomfortable.

"Oh, my God – Draco, my baby – what have – how did I – Draco—!"

She thrashes all the harder, screaming his name, tears pouring down her cheeks.

"Your final test," the Dark Lord says, and he is suddenly beside him. "Kill her."

_KILL HER._

It is unlikely that his mother heard the command through the sound of her own sobbing, but Draco heard it with perfect clarity. He stares at his mother and feels nothing. He feels nothing at all. Just uncomfortable.

"This is the absolute test of devotion," he tells Draco. "I want you to put nothing and no one above me. Only then can I be satisfied of your loyalty. Only then can I trust you. Do you want me to trust you, little bird?"

Draco says nothing. He is staring at his mother. He doesn't feel anything. Just uncomfortable. Just a tiny pinprick of pain in the back of his head. Just a knot in his throat and clammy hands.

"My sister is inside of her," Draco says.

"Indeed, she is," the Dark Lord answers.

"Killing her means killing my sister," Draco says. His voice is neutral because he does not feel anything except an itch, a prickle, a slight pain, a cold sweat on the back of his neck. "Are your orders for me to kill them both, My Lord?"

"My orders were for you to kill your mother," the Dark Lord says. "I said nothing of your sister. If you feel some impetus to save your sister's life, I would advise coming up with a way to achieve both goals."

_Oh._

"Draco, Draco," his mother sobs, and no, she has not heard their conversation. She does not understand what the Dark Lord just asked of him.

"I don't know anything about performing a Cesarean section," Draco says quietly.

"I shouldn't imagine you would have to know all that much," the Dark Lord replies.

Draco supposes that is true. He flexes his wand hand.

"Draco, my baby, please, please…"

Draco moves forward. His legs are stiff, his hands are clammy, and he feels nothing, he feels nothing, there is nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Draco, Draco…"

He presses a single finger to the side of her abdomen, over the luxurious blue velvet of her maternity gown. He concentrates his magic and pulls.

His mother screams and hot blood pours over Draco's hand, but Draco keeps pulling.


	46. 9 July, 1995

_We must take care of our families wherever we find them._  
Elizabeth Gilbert

* * *

Draco knows he would otherwise be horrified. He knows he would be disgusted with himself. But with those emotions kept at bay by the Imperius curse, he finds it strangely comforting. Poetic, even.

For the first time, all the theories of social justice are put into extreme clarity. Humans really are all the same. Peel back the superficial layers of lifestyle and religion and skin color and they are all just red viscera and bone. Bags of meat with the accidental miracle of sentience.

He is coated up to mid-bicep with gore, his chest and stomach splattered with blood. His mother is sagged against the wall, still and quiet and carved open, her womb a red and gaping maw. Draco sits on the floor in a large smear of her blood.

He has just managed to get his sister to stop crying.

"There," Draco whispers. "That's better."

She gurgles and fusses in his arms.

Draco wipes away a glob of blood and placenta from her face. She is beautiful, the most incredibly beautiful thing Draco has ever seen, even covered in blood and freshly ripped from her mother's womb.

"You have the Black nose," Draco tells her. He knows she can't understand him, he knows that talking to her is pointless. He talks anyway. "Thin, with a slight upward slope. You'll look very much like your mother."

She gurgles again and kicks her legs. Draco hushes her and kisses her forehead, tasting the salty tang of warm blood.

"The tradition of my mother's family is to name children after stars, constellations, and other astronomical objects," Draco informs her. "I was named after the constellation Draco, the dragon, which is near the north star. In mythology, the dragon is famous for getting killed in a myriad of spectacular ways, mostly. Also there was a tyrant named Draco. I always did wonder why they chose a name for me with such unfortunate implications. I suppose there's something to be said about the strength and ferocity of a dragon, though I've never been particularly strong or ferocious…"

She makes a sort of yelping sound and to Draco's ear it's very close to a laugh. Draco smiles and offers her his finger, which she eagerly grips. His heart dissolves in his chest. He knows it is a gesture of pure instinct, but it doesn't make it less wonderful to feel her little hand curling around his index finger.

"There's a constellation I've always liked called Lyra," Draco says. "Ancient Grecian wizards named it after the lyre of the great bard Orpheus. It was a beautiful gilded instrument that Orpheus used to charm great beasts and monsters – even stones. Can you imagine? A musician so skilled with an instrument so masterful that he could charm stones."

She brings Draco's finger to her mouth and begins gnawing at it. Draco doesn't stop her.

"The brightest star in the constellation of Lyra is Vega, which is one of the most well-studied stars in the sky," he says. "It's very bright, you know. It used to be the north star and it will be again someday.

"But I think the best thing about the constellation Lyra is that it is bordered to the north by the constellation Draco."

She gurgles around his finger.

"It sort of wraps around… like he's guarding it."

Draco swallows. His eyes are burning and his throat is a bit tight.

"Do you like that name? Lyra? Lyra Malfoy?"

She doesn't answer, of course. She keeps gumming on his fingertip, staring at him with those wide eyes that are that particular shade of blue that only a baby has.

With his other fingers he strokes her cheek.

"I hope this doesn't scare you, Lyra," Draco says, "but I am startled and terrified by the depth of how desperately and completely I love you."

She stares up at him. She doesn't seem scared.

"I love you very, very much," he continues, his throat getting progressively tighter. "I want to protect you and raise you and love you until we're both old and grey. Would that be all right with you? I hope so. I don't think you'll ever be able to keep me away.

"I know why the Dark Lord has given you to me. I know he wants to use you as another method of controlling me. I knew it from the start. It's worked, Lyra. The thought of protecting you controls me more completely than any Imperius curse ever could.

"I will do anything for you," Draco continues, surprising himself by how fast and brokenly the words are coming. "I will kill for you. I will _die_ for you. There is no magic strong enough to change that, Lyra."

Lyra yawns and blinks her eyes shut. Draco drops his voice to a whisper before he continues:

"Sleep now," he whispers, "I'll be with you."

Draco hums an old French lullaby under his breath and rocks her in his arms until her breathing slows and she settles in to sleep. Draco's legs tingle uncomfortably from the way he sits on them but he does not dare move. He wants to stay just like this forever, with his baby sister curled up and sleeping in his arms, with her little heart beating against his chest, and her hand gripping his finger.

"Oh, how precious."

Draco lifts his head. The Dark Lord is standing in the threshold, hands clasped, staring adoringly down at him. He is speaking quietly, as though he knows she is sleeping. Something in the back of Draco's head prickles. Defensiveness. It seeps through the barriers of the Imperius curse like a sieve. Draco does not let on.

The Dark Lord moves forward, his footsteps wet in the blood that coats the floor, and crouches down next to him.

"Does she have a name?" he asks.

"Lyra," Draco replies.

"Lyra," Lord Voldemort repeats, his voice almost fond. "A beautiful name. Traditional, yet unconventional."

The Dark Lord strokes a single finger through Lyra's hair and something very deep inside Draco twitches. He knows exactly what this is. It is a show of dominance, a reminder of power dynamics. He does because he _can_, because Draco has no choice, because the Dark Lord is in control. Draco's eyes move from the hand in his sister's hair to his face. That deep-seated instinct rages not against but alongside the curse in strange and inscrutable ways that Draco can't identify. The Dark Lord gazes back at him, red eyes still and sure.

"It's well after midnight," he says. "Lyra is not the only one who should be sleeping."

Draco swallows his discomfort and looks back toward the bed. It's no place for a baby. And his mother's corpse will doubtlessly start to stink before long.

"I've arranged a new bedroom for you, complete with a cot," the Dark Lord says.

Draco is silent for a moment before he says, "Thank you."

"You passed the test," he says, gesturing one pale hand towards the bloody, eviscerated corpse of his mother still strung to the wall. "I always keep my promises, little bird. In the morning, I except you at my side. You will make, I am sure, a spectacular right hand."

With some difficulty, Draco rises to his feet. The blood that had soaked through his trousers sluices down his shins toward his feet.

"Who will take care—?" Draco begins.

"Little bird, do you not recognize your own home?"

It takes Draco a moment to put the pieces together. "We're – this is the Malfoy Manor?"

"The very same," he answers, rising to his feet and looming down over Draco. "In the fairly extensive dungeon system beneath the foundation. I suppose it's understandable that you never came down here."

Indeed, Draco never had. He had been made aware of its existence, told stories by the house-elves of how they were used back when the Malfoy Barony was more than just a title but an actual authority in wizarding Wiltshire, but he had never gone down to explore. Their mere existence had always frightened Draco more than he had ever admitted.

"Your house-elves will be able to look after her," he says, with a strange, cryptic smile. "Go upstairs and put little Lyra to bed. Take a bath. Eat. In the morning, come down to the drawing room. There is much to plan."


	47. 10 July, 1996

_Never, never, never believe any war will be smooth and easy, or that anyone who embarks on the strange voyage can measure the tides and hurricanes he will encounter._  
Winston Churchill

* * *

When Draco emerges from the ensuite with a long green robe tied around his waist, the first thing he sees is his father standing over Lyra's cot.

His back is to Draco and his shoulders are trembling slightly. Draco hesitates a moment, then clears his throat.

His father turns around. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is unkempt. He looks an absolute wreck, and Draco does not feel anything.

"I gather that His Lordship removed the memory charm," Draco says.

His father doesn't answer. He stares at Draco as he crosses to the mirror and starts vigorously drying his hair with the towel over his arm.

"I didn't really have the opportunity to get your input," Draco continues, "but I've already named her Lyra."

Still, his father says nothing. Draco can see him reflected in the mirror, staring at Draco as starts combing his still-damp hair back. The expression on his father's face is inscrutable, and his body language is a mess of conflicting signs. Heartache in his face, rage in his fists, sadness in his shoulders.

"You might as well just say what's on your mind, Father," Draco says. "It won't get any easier if you keep it to yourself."

A moment of silence stretches between them. He hesitates, visibly, and when Draco sets the comb down, he crosses the space between them and gathers Draco into his arms.

To say Draco is startled would be a tremendous understatement; he is _shocked_. Of all the possible reactions for which Draco had been preparing, this had not been one of them.

"Draco," he says into his hair, his arms firm around him, and Merlin, it feels utterly alien – it has been so very, very long, years, a lifetime. "Draco, my son, what have I done – what have I driven you to—?"

Draco says nothing. His father smells like strong English Breakfast and cigarettes, like settled leather and expensive cologne.

"I drove you away," he says, voice breaking, "and now—"

"I would have thought this was what you wanted," Draco says, extricating himself from his father's arms to look up at him severely.

He sets his face. "No," he says, "_never_."

"You spent my entire life disappointed that I wasn't your perfect little purist soldier," Draco counters, frowning. "I never lived up to your standards of what the future Lord Malfoy should be. I was never—"

"_Draco,_" he interjects, grabbing him by both shoulders. There is urgency in his eyes, purpose, but also a certain tragedy. "You were difficult. Impossible, sometimes. It's not easy being parent to a child who's smarter than you. But I _never_ wanted you to change. Let alone – let alone have change forced up on you."

Draco does not feel anything at that remark. It may hold some substantial emotional meaning to him, but not with the curse. With the curse, it is meaningless. Draco does not feel a thing and he does not react.

"But it is better this way," Draco says. "I am sure you are glad to have me on the winning side of this war. Aren't you?"

His father's hands retract and he stares at Draco measuringly. It is a test and clearly his father is aware of as much. Lucius Malfoy is not a genius, but he is also not stupid.

"Of course I am," he says, lying so convincingly that Draco nearly believes him.

"And I'm sure you agree that the ends justify the unfortunate means."

His face is perfectly composed. Draco knows there is absolutely no way his father is without resentment towards the Dark Lord for ordering the murder of his wife. The question is how much exists and what, if anything, he plans on doing about it. Draco's new prime directive is to see the Dark Lord rise to power, and he will not let anyone, including his father, hinder it.

"Sacrifices are always necessary in war," his father says. His voice is so very careful. He has always been excellent at telling people what they precisely what they need to hear.

Draco snatches his robe from where it's draped over a chair. "You should go down to the drawing room," he says. "His Lordship has called a meeting of the inner council at eight."

He ducks behind the dressing screen and sets to changing. He doesn't hear the sound of footsteps that might signal his father's departure.

"I think it would be proper if her middle name was Narcissa."

Draco's hands do not fumble. The comment does not evoke any particular reaction, none at all.

"Yes," Draco answers. "I think that is suitable."

Another moment of silence. Draco fastens the robe. His father leaves the room without another word, and the door clicks shut behind him.

A few minutes later, Draco is dressed and walking downstairs. Lyra is sleeping soundly in her cot, and Draco left orders with the house-elves to feed her when she wakes up. He reaches the bottom of the stairs just as the Dark Lord emerges from around a corner, tale and spare and pale, robes billowing around his feet.

"My Lord," Draco greets, bowing shallowly.

"Good morning, little bird," the Dark Lord says. His tone is strangely affectionate. "How is the baby?"

"Sleeping soundly, My Lord. The house-elves think her healthy, but I'd like to have her taken to a mediwizard all the same, just for a routine check-up."

"I'm sure something can be arranged." They stop outside the door to the drawing room, and the Dark Lord looks over him appraisingly. "That's a good color on you, little bird."

Draco looks down at himself. He'd chosen a well-fitted gray robe with a white cravat.

"You should wear it more often."

_WEAR IT MORE OFTEN._ The order comes as something of a surprise to Draco, and he wonders why what color he wears is worthy of a direct command. Before he can ask, their attention is drawn away by Professor Snape, who moves into the corridor accompanied by a house-elf, Dolly.

"My Lord," he says to the Dark Lord, though his eyes remain firmly on Draco.

"Severus," the Dark Lord returns. His smile is strange and crooked. "Go on in. We will be with you shortly."

Professor Snape hesitates. His eyes are still on Draco, as though he wants to say something to him, but whatever it is seems to be relegated. He inclines his head and moves into the drawing room. Draco watches him go.

"Does it bother you," Draco says once the drawing room door closes behind him, "that Professor Snape is an agent of Dumbledore?"

"Funnily enough, no," the Dark Lord answers. "I don't need his loyalty. He provides invaluable information regardless of his allegiance. Even when he lies, there's something to be gleaned. So long as I control what he knows, his benefits outweigh his risks."

"You've known all along?" Draco asks, looking sideways at him.

"I knew before _he_ did."

Somehow, Draco is both surprised and not surprised at the same time. "Does _he_ know you know?"

"Oh, of course," he replies easily. "It's a game we play."

Draco hums. Together they walk into the drawing room.

A long table is set up, though it's rather underoccupied. Only the members of the inner circle are in attendance – Draco, Professor Snape, Draco's father, Bartemius, Avery, Nott, Macnair – and though early morning daylight is filtering in through the windows, it is somehow insufficient, leaving the room feeling dreary and dark. It's a feeling that is only strengthened, Draco is sure, by the overpowering presence of the Dark Lord.

"We have several goals which must be prioritized and executed," Lord Voldemort begins without preamble, sinking down into a chair at the end of the table. Draco sits just to his right, across from Snape, to his immediate left. Snape catches his eyes, and Draco smirks at him.

"My lengthy absence forces us to start from scratch," the Dark Lord continues, "but it is not an insurmountable difficulty. I nearly did it once, and I don't intend any more mishaps. As it stands, our primarily priorities should be infiltrating the Ministry of Magic, infiltrating Hogwarts, ridding ourselves of Albus Dumbledore, and freeing my supporters from Azkaban."

"All due respect, My Lord," Draco interjects, "but I think our _first_ priority should be gathering up all of your Horcruxes and putting them in new hiding spots."

An unsteady quiet falls over the table. It takes Draco a moment to realize the cause of it.

"Sorry," he says belatedly, "were they supposed to be a secret?"

He looks to the Dark Lord, who raises an eyebrow at Draco and looks, more than anything, amused.

"Because I figured out they existed when I was twelve," Draco continues, "and I destroyed one myself. You can be sure I told Albus Dumbledore, and I'm certain he hasn't been idle since then. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already managed to track a few down. We need to get them back and make safe any remaining ones."

"My Lord—" Nott suddenly says, "—what exactly is a—?"

The Dark Lord silences him with a stern gesture of his cadaverous hand.

"Lead a team," he tells Draco. "You'll need one. I'll tell you where to go and what to expect. I trust you have something in mind to hide them?"

"I'm wounded that you need ask, My Lord."

He smiles viciously. "Excellent," he says. "Take Bartemius, Avery, and Greyback. I presume that will be sufficient?"

Draco has come to trust Bartemius's creativity and genius these past weeks, if nothing else. And Avery (the senior, at least), is an accomplished duellist. Greyback is out of his mind, but at least he's out of his mind in predictable and controllable ways.

"Very," Draco decides.

"Good. Let's discuss an itinerary."

Draco nods and looks over to Snape, who is sitting stiffly in his high-back chair and staring at Draco with dark, inscrutable eyes. Draco does not feel a thing.


	48. 21 July, 1995

_Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for._  
Erica Jong

* * *

"Still can't believe we're taking orders from a fucking pup," says Greyback for the fourth time that night.

"Shut the fuck up, Greyback," Draco says, pulling himself over the sheer rock face.

"I'll rip open your goddamn neck, whelp."

"You'll watch your fucking tongue, dog," Avery interjects. "Unless you'd like to make your excuses to the Dark Lord."

Draco straightens against the howling wind off the sea. The mouth of the cave looms down over them, dark and terrible, and their black hooded cloaks flutter and hiss in protest. Draco casts a nonverbal _lumos_ and holds his hand, now glowing with brilliant golden light. It seems to barely illuminate a foot into the oppressive darkness of the cave.

Avery moves next to him. "Is this it?" With his hood up, Draco can only just make out the features of his face – a scruffy beard that's a bit more salt than pepper, crow's feet, a Roman nose, sharp eyes.

"Don't see how it can't be," Draco returns. "No mistaking a giant cave in a rock in the middle of the sea."

"We're being watched," Bartemius says suddenly.

"I know," Draco says. "I saw them from the shore."

Bartemius turns and glowers at him. "And you didn't think of pointing it out?"

"We're being watched?" Avery repeats.

Greyback's nostrils flare and he inhales deeply. A moment later, his lips pull back from his teeth and he growls low in the back of his throat.

"Keep your fucking voices down," Draco snaps. "We can still have the upper hand if they think we're unsuspecting."

"Who is it?" Avery asks.

"Likely some of the Order. I'm sure it's reformed by now."

"What are your _orders_, Malfoy?" Greyback asks, voice low and snarling.

"My orders are to fucking be quiet and follow my lead," Draco answers. He gives his hand a shake, dispelling the _lumos_, and moves forward over the uneven stone, through the gale and ocean spray, toward the mouth of the cave. The others fall into step behind him.

He knows that they're perched behind a large boulder next to the entrance of the cave, likely thinking they can ambush them. He knows that there are four of them, and that they haven't been here long. Draco sees the spider's web of possibilities radiating like a map in his head, and when he's decided on the best course of action, he stops just sort of the radius they would need to attack and calls—

"Congratulations! That was very nearly a well-executed plan."

Then he hurls an explosion hex at the boulder.

The sound is tremendous. Shards of stone go flying in all directions, and Bartemius is quick to throw up a shield that catches several before they have a chance to land on anyone in their party.

There's a force of magic that comes roaring out of the dust and debris and the battle is on.

It is a flurry of shouts and energy and sound. There are four of the Order, though in the darkness Draco can't quite make out who. Spells go flying, and Draco burns with the heat of the fight, slinging curses and shields and counterspells.

One of them deftly dodges Draco's slashing hex and fires off an _incarcerous_, which comes flying at Draco like a silvery web, but Draco has his hand on his panic button and he uses it to warp out of the way, which takes him into the mouth of the cave. He hears footsteps behind him, and Draco takes off in a run, down and down and down, into what looks like an underground lake.

"_Petrificus totalus_—"

"_Aspernari!_" The spell rebounds off a sheer layer of magic. They've come to a stop by the edge of a vast, underground late. Draco stops at the edge of the water and whirls. "I hope you weren't expecting to surprise me!"

His assailant stops, caught under a thick shadow, face obscured.

"Harry."

Silence passes, deep and dreadful. Harry steps forward. He seems taller, darker, more dangerous.

Draco whistles.

"Savage is a good look on you."

"Can't say Death Eater is a good one on you," Harry returns. His hand is wringing around his wand.

"Well, I'm not a big fan of the silly silver masks or the tattoo, but one copes as one must."

Harry laughs once, then grimaces, as though laughing – or rather, the reminder that Draco can make him laugh – is painful. He grips his wand a bit tighter.

"I'd ask what brings you here," Draco says, "but I make a point of never asking questions I know the answer to. Scrambling to get to the Horcruxes, are we? That little ambush of yours was obviously last minute."

"We were a bit underprepared," Harry admits, moving forward in slow, uncertain steps. "It would be a lot easier if you would help."

"Doubtlessly. Apart from one rather enormous fuck-up, I do tend to be the smartest person in every room."

"Help us, then," Harry says.

Draco raises an eyebrow. "You do know how the Imperius curse _works_, right? You were actually paying _attention_ in Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"I was," Harry says. "And I saw you break it."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news—"

"I _know_ you can do it again."

Draco sets his face. "Not going to happen."

Even in the darkness, Harry's too-green eyes seem to burn. Draco is suddenly full of memories of those eyes smiling at him, staring at him as Draco studied, devouring him at the Yule Ball. Something prickles at the back of Draco's neck.

Harry lowers his wand and spreads his arms. "Kill me, then."

Draco could. He probably should. Harry is his enemy. He keeps his wand hand out, fingers splayed.

"Kill me," Harry says again, with more volume.

"Don't be so dramatic," Draco deflects, and he should kill him, one quick _Avada Kedavra_, it would be over just like that. The prickling at the back of Draco's neck gets stronger. It feels an awful lot like the pain Draco felt the first time he was put under the Imperius, at the front of the classroom.

"You can't," Harry says. "_You can't_. A part of you is still fighting. Draco, you are stronger than this curse! You always have been!"

"That is sentimental nonsense." But Draco is still not killing him, and the pain is still there.

"I had visions of you," Harry says, and his voice is suddenly thick with emotion. "_Every night_. I saw everything those – those _monsters_ had to do to break you. All the shit they had to put you through just to bring down the walls. That would have killed anyone else, and they had to do it just to _control_ you. That's how strong you are, that's how strong you can be again."

Harry's voice is desperate now. He's close. When had he gotten so close? Draco flexes his fingers and backs away in time until water laps at the heel of his boot.

"Draco…"

Kill him. Draco should kill him. Draco should kill him.

But there is not nothing. There is something. It is small and it is fragile but it is _something_ and it is getting stronger the longer he stares at Harry and—

There's a pinprick on his neck and a familiar pain suddenly floods Draco's body. He grits his teeth and makes a strangled sound, doubling forward. That unbearable liquid fire burns its way across his skin and Draco is undone. With one hand he grips the collar around his neck.

"Draco—!"

There's a sudden thunderous crash from the mouth of the cave. Dust and stone rain down and it's loud enough to distract Draco from the pain and Harry from Draco, loud enough to let the curse reassert. Avery and Greyback come barrelling inside like a force of nature. Draco spins on one foot and kicks a rock into the water.

"_Greyback!_" Draco calls, and he holds out one arm. Greyback shoves past Potter just as the black surfaces of the lake shudders and ripples and the dark shadows begin moving out.

Harry staggers away from the edge of the water as the Inferius come shambling from the depths.

Greyback grabs Draco around the waist and, with one tremendous leap, bounds nearly twenty yards in the air and three times as far, landing on the small island in the middle of the water.

"Make it fast, pup," Greyback snarls, and Draco quickly regains his footing. He's still dizzy with pain from the sudden jolt of venom but he pushes it aside and dives for the basin of water.

"Are they dead?" he asks.

"One of 'em nearly," Greyback answers shortly. "And I think Avery's taking care of the boy…"

Draco stills and looks back over his shoulder. Harry and Avery are duelling on the other side of the water as the Inferi shamble up from the depths of the water and Draco has to go back _he has to go back Harry is in danger he needs to_—

"_Hnngghhha–_!" Draco braces both hands on the edge of the large bowl full of potion that covers the Horcrux, _God_, the pain is _unbearable_, he lifts a hand to the collar around his neck and _stop it stop it stop it_—

"_Hurry the fuck up,_" Greyback snarls and with a concentrated force of will that can only be described as herculean, Draco pushes the pain aside. He shoves up his sleeve and puts his finger to his Dark Mark.

"Magic of thy maker," Draco says through his teeth, and the Dark Mark begins to glow, "will of thy master, bend and break and be unmade."

There's a crack of magic. Draco pushes a hand into the potion and snatches the treasure inside.

"Get me out of here," Draco says, and Greyback grabs him around the waist again.


	49. 2 August, 1995

_You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have yourself._  
Margaret Atwood

* * *

There is an itch.

It first appeared after Draco, Greyback, Bartemius and Avery had all Apparated away from the island and back to safety.

It is a small itch, starting at the back of his neck and running up to the base of his skull. It is deep, deeper than skin and muscle, as though it's settled directly into his bones.

It gets stronger when Draco thinks of Harry. It is starting to affect Draco's ability to concentrate.

"Avery says that you're nearly done."

Draco takes in a sharp breath and turns, but sees only darkness. It takes him a moment to remember he is wearing heavy, tinted goggles to protect against the blinding sparks of magic. He pulls them onto his forehead.

His father's laboratory is a mess, even by its usual standards. The blackboard is full of complicated equations that get progressively smaller as they run out of space, and twenty reference books are left open, scattered across every available surface, save the large table in the center – on the table, Draco's drawn a complicated sigil with the energy from raw magic.

"Yes, My Lord, nearly."

"I saw the note," the Dark Lord says, moving through the laboratory like ink moves through water. "R.A.B. – I might have known the Black boy would betray me."

"Grimmauld Place has been turned into the headquarters of the enemy," Draco says, patting chalk dust off his fingertips, "but we do have the advantage in that they don't know it's there."

"We will arrange for its retrieval in due time, likewise with the diadem," he says. "Tell me about this new hiding spot for the goblet."

"The term 'hiding spot' is a bit of a misnomer, My Lord, as it won't really be hidden in any particular place," Draco says. "It will be everywhere and nowhere, at any point in time and space yet constantly out of reach."

The Dark Lord stops by the chalkboard. His red eyes move across the formulae.

"Spacial displacement," he says after a moment.

"A magical rift in reality," Draco confirms. "It will open and close to your magical signature alone. It will keep it out of sync with the rest of the universe, out of space and time. It will be completely beyond reach. You'll have to complete the ceremony, of course, for it to attune itself to your magic."

He pulls his gaze away from the chalkboard and it lands on Draco.

"You, little bird," he says softly, "were an excellent investment."

Draco opens his mouth to respond, realizes that he doesn't know what to say, and snaps it shut again.

"Do you know what makes you different from the common rabble?"

Determining it to be a rhetorical question, Draco does not respond.

"Not your intellect, superior though it is – there is nothing you know that could not conceivably be learned by anyone. What makes you different is the singular trait that cannot be learned, little bird – the spark of creativity."

He moves closer, his robes whispering around his feet. He looms down over Draco, so very close, and Draco can smell the Dark Magic rippling off him. One of his pale hands reaches up and strokes through Draco's hair. Draco remains still.

"If I had asked any other follower to hide my Horcrux, they would have gone over-the-top – elaborate curses, exotic locales, wards, traps – but _you_. I tell _you_ to hide my Horcrux and you think to put it outside reality _entirely_, as if your mind is not bound by the laws that govern the universe and never has been. _That_ is the true essence of genius."

The hand in Draco's hair curls slightly. The Dark Lord is very, very close now, and Draco is still. He knows what is happening. He does not know how to react.

"Avery tells me there was a bit of a skirmish outside the cave."

Draco swallows, though there's no point to it because his mouth is dry. "Yes, My Lord. A few members of the Order of the Phoenix were making their own effort to get to it."

"He says Harry Potter was there."

The itch is back, strong, so strong it feels more like a burn.

"Yes, My Lord."

Red eyes narrow fractionally. White lips curl back from gleaming teeth. The hand in Draco's hair tightens and Draco makes a small sound of protest, and then—

—all at once, Draco can feel it, feel _him_, feel the Dark Lord in his mind, pushing through his memories.

Legilimency, Draco belatedly realizes – he knows the Dark Lord is a superb legilimens, but he'd never demonstrated the talent on Draco; there'd never been call to.

"Why didn't you attack?"

His voice is soft, dangerous. Draco's memory at the edge of the lake, of Harry's too-green eyes, of the tiny little something that replaced the nothing, is at the forefront of his mind, and the Dark Lord's presence claws at it.

"My Lord…" It's an incredibly painful sensation.

"What is that?" he snarls. "What is that sensation you felt? _Answer me._"

"I—" The hand pulling at his hair, the painful presence in his mind, the oppressive scent of Dark Magic, it's all burning through him. "I don't know, I—"

And then his presence is ripping through the rest of his memories of Harry, Harry at the robe shop, Harry outside the third-floor corridor, Harry's valentine, Harry and the butterfly, Harry and that spectacular first kiss, Harry at the Yule Ball, Harry kissing him deeply and thoroughly until Draco's toes were curling, until Draco's mind was white with pleasure, Harry and his eyes, his hair, his smell—

A darkness comes over Lord Voldemort's eyes.

"I do not want you to feel that ever again," he snarls.

"My Lord—"

"You hate Harry Potter."

_YOU HATE HARRY POTTER._

And he does. It is an awkward and unnatural hatred, but it is hatred. Draco's breath stutters, and the hand in his hair pulls him closer until he stumbles and is pressed into the long, sinewy body of the Dark Lord.

"The idea of him _repels_ you," he says, "_disgusts_ you. It is the most intense hatred you've ever known. Do you understand me?"

Draco's breath comes out in wheezes. "Yes."

"Say it, little bird."

"I hate Harry Potter," Draco says. The words feel clumsy on his tongue but the truth of them is there, weighty and dreadful.

"When we've made safe the rest of the Horcruxes," the Dark Lord growls, "we will take care of Harry Potter."

Draco hates Harry Potter and the idea of his death brings Draco satisfaction.

Doesn't it? It must. It does. Yes, it does, surely it does.

The Dark Lord releases his grip on Draco and Draco falls backward into the table, limbs shaking.

And when he storms from the laboratory, leaving Draco alone, the itch is still there.


	50. 20 August, 1995

_The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature._  
Antoine François Prévost

* * *

One of the more surprising side-effects of the Imperius curse is the way it gives Draco a resistance to Dementors. Perhaps it's because any true part of him is buried down so deeply that it can't be affected, or perhaps it's the similarities between the Dark Magic of the curse and the Dementors.

Either way, he stands by a tower on a rock in the middle of the sea, looking up at an army of them assembled in the sky, and he feels nothing.

"The key is absolute silence," Draco calls, shouting against the howling wind. "Don't waste time giving the Kiss to those who raise an alarm, just kill them. We want this to be fast and efficient and untraceable."

He pauses, waiting for some sign of comprehension. He doesn't get one. They just hover, shadows snarling and twisting, seemingly unaffected by the frigid, gale-force winds off the sea.

"Start at the bottom and work your way up," he continues. "When the building is clear, we'll follow you in and start the jailbreak."

He stops again, but when they don't move, he says—

"Go!"

They move like ripples toward the dark, menacing tower that is Azkaban. Draco lifts his arm up to shield his eyes from the wind so he can watch them pass through the narrow, slatted windows as though they were made of ink.

"It's a good plan."

Draco looks over his shoulder. His father is standing just behind him, separated from the small pack of Death Eaters Draco had elected to take with him.

"Of course it is," Draco says. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm extremely smart."

His father smiles joylessly.

"The Dark Lord's spellwork is impeccable," he says, and Draco can't quite place his tone. "He really has unmade the most fundamental parts of you."

Draco stares at him in silence. A strong gust of wind catches his father's cloak.

"I remember once when you were young," he continues, moving forward so he doesn't have to shout over the wind, "you must have been no more than five or six – you were hunting through the garden for caterpillars for one of your selective breeding experiments, but instead you found a bird with a badly broken wing. You brought it to me and demanded that we take it straight to St. Mungo's."

Draco remembers that day, too, but he says nothing.

"I tried to explain why St. Mungo's wouldn't heal a bird, and why it might be better to put the creature out of its misery – after all, it was a very severe break and there was no way it would ever fly again. But you were absolutely _adamant_.

"'A bird is more than flight, Father,' you told me, 'and a life is more than limitations.' You insisted on starting that – what did you call it?"

"Draco Malfoy's Home for Handicapable Fauna," Draco says, voice neutral.

"First it was the bird, then that garden gnome with the lame leg, then the field mouse. Merlin knows where you found them all, but you set up a great terrarium in the laboratory for them to live in, researched their diets, taught yourself basic veterinary medicine…"

The itching is back at the base of Draco's head. A part of him is almost angry. What's the point of this? And why is it making Draco's eyes burn?

"That little boy," his father says, voice wan, "with an understanding of life beyond his years that only strengthened his empathy – that little boy would never order the murder of so many men."

Draco's hands are not shaking. His throat is not tight. He does not feel anything. He does not feel anything.

"I wonder where he's gone."

"Sometimes," Draco says, "so do I."

The silence that follows is deafening. It lasts too long. Draco wonders if he's said too much.

"Draco—" his father begins, but Draco holds up a hand.

"Don't," he says. "Don't say anything. Don't give me reason to doubt my certainty that your benefits outweigh your risks. I need you."

The sentence startles them both, Draco most of all.

"_We_," Draco corrects sharply. He finds he is suddenly breathless. "_We_ need you. The cause needs you. Your – your connections, your support…"

"Draco," he says again, but his voice has changed. It's softer. It chews Draco up from the inside out. There is nothing, nothing, and the nothing is burning him up.

There's a terrible shrieking sound from behind him, coming from the tower. Draco swallows his apprehension. He shoves down whatever had been flaring up inside him.

"That's the signal," Draco says, and he turns and strides toward the tower, willing away all that dreadful, burning, aching nothing.

"Draco."

He stops and looks back, despite his better judgment.

"I need you, too. You know that, right?"

Even if he wanted to, even if he could, even if he knew what to say, Draco wouldn't have answered. He stumbles on his way toward the great black doors of Azkaban.


	51. 23 August, 1995

_In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule._  
Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

"So is the rumor true?"

Draco stops halfway down the steps and looks over his shoulder.

Her years in Azkaban have not been kind to Bellatrix. Granted, Draco has no point of comparison – he was still an infant when she was arrested – but given the state the prison had left her in, there was really nothing she could have been but better.

In the days since the jailbreak, she has regained most of her faculties, in the sense that she no longer screams at things that aren't there and can hold a conversation that makes some measure of sense, but she still has a haunted look to her eyes and a strange, frenetic twitch that never seems to go away.

"Good to see you, too, Aunt Bella," he answers neutrally.

"Word is that you're the Dark Lord's new favorite," she continues as though she hadn't heard him.

"The Dark Lord doesn't have favorites," Draco returns, continuing down the rest of the steps when she catches up to him. "That would imply that he actually likes anyone. You're deluding yourself if you think he's actually capable of seeing us as anything but means to his end."

They reach the bottom landing. Bellatrix's face is somewhere between surprised and furious, all of it tempered by her usual amount of strange mania. "How dare you speak ill of His Lordship—!" she begins, but Draco cuts her off.

"I'm not speaking ill of him, I'm making an observation. He's obviously a sociopath. The only reason he trusts me is because I'm under his Imperius curse. He doesn't like me, I'm _useful_ to him."

Of course, there's the strange and uncomfortable attraction – or whatever it is – he seems to harbor for Draco. Draco has been thinking about it a lot lately, ever since the Dark Lord ripped through all of Draco's memories of Harry with what Draco could only describe as jealous abandon, and wonders how or whether it would escalate.

Draco knows that anyone under the Imperius curse is legally incapable of giving consent. He also knows that despite the fact that he's an intellectual and emotional match for any adult, he is still underage.

He further knows that none of that would stop the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world from taking what he wants, should he want it enough and have occasion to take it.

Draco is not as upset as he should be. He _can't_ be as upset as he should be, not with the curse. As with everything else, he thinks about the Dark Lord escalating, about what is by any reasonable measure being raped, and he feels absolutely nothing.

All he can do is continue on.

"Answer me!"

Draco's eyes refocus. They have stopped outside the door of the drawing room, and Bellatrix is glaring at him.

"Sorry," Draco says, "did you ask me a question?"

Her lips pull back from her teeth in a strangely animalistic snarl, but the look is cut short when a voice breaks through the silence—

"Little bird, there you are. You weren't in the laboratory."

They both turn. The Dark Lord is striding towards them, all long limbs and billowing robes. Beside him, Draco hears Bellatrix take in a sharp breath – it is the first time she has seen him since leaving Azkaban.

"My Lord," she breathes.

"Apologies," Draco says. "I was doing a round of check-ups on your followers still in recovery."

"How very assiduous of you." His eyes move from Draco and land on Bella, who is wearing an expression that Draco can only accurately describe as worshipful. It's somewhere between amusing, worrying, and embarrassing to see. "Bella."

"My Lord," she says again. "I knew you would return."

"I have always valued your zealotry," he responds dismissively. "Come. There's much to discuss."

Draco pushes open the sitting room door, and the Death Eaters – newly reunited, freshly assembled – fall quiet as they enter. The Dark Lord sits first, and Draco takes his usual spot just to his right, across from Professor Snape.

He smirks at Professor Snape, as always, and Professor Snape does not react, as always. They have not spoken once since Draco was forced to torture him, and Draco wonders why.

"Our new target is the Ministry of Magic," he says, sitting back in his chair and drumming his too-long fingers on the wood of the table. "A lofty goal, but the most critical. It's a plan that will require extreme coordination and careful planning. Draco."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "My Lord."

He turns and focuses on Draco. "Before the year is out, I need to be the de facto ruler of the greater wizarding government. Think you can handle that?"

Draco pauses, then sits back in his chair.

"Turn the Ministry into a puppet regime and lay the framework for a shadow government that extends throughout the entire system within four months?" Draco purses his lips and turns a few ideas over in his head. "Sure," he decides. "Should be a fun project."

The Dark Lord smirks viciously. "Then I will leave that in your provably capable hands. It's far too complex a job, of course, for you to think of returning to Hogwarts."

Draco opens his mouth, shuts it, then tries again: "Well, I don't imagine I'll lose all that much."

"You're far too valuable to be wasted so far away. Lucius?"

Further down the table, his father shifts in his seat. "My Lord?"

"I trust you can withdraw him formally from the roster?"

"I…" He pauses, cringes. "Yes, My Lord. Of course."

"Splendid." The Dark Lord leans forward. There's a new purpose in his eyes. "And while you're at it – you still sit on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, do you not?"

He tenses even further. At once, Draco sees where this conversation is going. "Yes, My Lord."

"Valuable as Severus is as our eyes and ears at Hogwarts, he has long been outnumbered. He needs another one of us among him, especially now that my reach will be expanding. Avery."

A startled sound. "My Lord?" Avery returns.

"You are, among other things, an accomplished duelist and good friend of Lucius. It would be perfectly reasonable for you to be appointed to the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, wouldn't you think?"

"That…"

Avery looks sideways at Draco's father, who is sitting rigid in his seat. Ever since his wife's death, everyone has been giving him a very wide berth, as if expecting, at any moment, for him to suddenly turn coat. Honestly, Draco had spent the last several weeks expecting the same; every day he woke up finding his father still present at meals was a surprise.

"... I suppose that would be logical."

"What do you say to that, Lucius?" the Dark Lord says. His voice is almost crooning, darkly saccharine, and he bends forward across the table to get a better look at him. His father's countenance is frightfully, dreadfully controlled. "Are you still with us? With our cause?"

He turns his eyes to the Dark Lord and meets his gaze unwaveringly. "Of course, My Lord," he says.

"_Splendid._ Then I expect you to appoint him and make sure he is approved. And once you've arranged it, you'll work with Draco and begin work on the Ministry."

Lord Voldemort looks at Draco again, then lifts a hand to crook a finger, the universal _come here_ gesture. Draco bends forward toward him.

"Go with him," he says lowly, "and make sure he doesn't forget his place."

"Of course, My Lord," Draco returns, equally softly.

Red eyes glint. Long fingers trace the lines of Draco's wrist. "Wherever would I be without you, little bird?"

A question worth considering, Draco is sure.


	52. 11 November, 1995

_It is only in folk tales, children's stories, and the journals of intellectual opinion that power is used wisely and well to destroy evil._  
Noam Chomsky

* * *

Lucius Malfoy walks into the central hub of the Ministry of Magic and he parts the crowds as Moses parted the Red Sea. Draco is at his heels, adjusting the sleeves of his slate gray robe and watching.

"I must admit, I am more impressed than I thought I would be."

"Money and notoriety are a potent combination," he answers, and his voice seems hollow. Draco gives him a sidelong look. His father is dressed sharply, which makes for a change – for the first time since his wife's death, his robes are pressed, his hair is combed and tied back, his shoes are polished – but there's no hiding the dark circles underlining his eyes, the pallidness of his skin, the weariness. He looks as though he's ready to collapse, though whether from exhaustion or heartbreak is unclear.

"I thought you were proud of your influence in government, Father," Draco says, recalling several instances throughout his childhood where he would go on longwinded diatribes about the importance of social standing.

"I have had a recent reassessment of my priorities," he replies quietly.

Draco does not say or feel anything.

They take an elevator that screams up through the Ministry, rattling and clattering and generally being far more terrifying than an elevator has any right to be, but it deposits them safely in a wide corridor bustling with people moving in all directions, all of them with files full of parchment under their arms and looks of determination.

At the far end, flanked by great marble columns and two armed aurors, is a set of wide, mahogany doors with brass handles and knockers. Together they stride right towards them, and the aurors let them right through with nothing but a cursory nod and a brief _hello, Lord Malfoy_.

Around a corner and through another set of doors (through which they are also allowed to pass without question), sits Cornelius Fudge at a wide desk, scribbling out a letter. He looks up when they enter, and his round face breaks into a startled smile.

"Lucius Malfoy, as I live and breathe!"

"Good evening, Cornelius," his father returns, with none of his enthusiasm.

He stands and walks around the desk to offer his hand.

"Good to see you, my friend, good to see you!" he says. "And this must be your son! Draco, isn't it? The spitting image!"

Draco smiles wanly and takes the Minister's hand when it's offered. His palm is unpleasantly sweaty but Draco doesn't let on.

"It's been far too long, my friend," he says.

"Since Christmas," his father says. "I'm afraid I've been rather busy these past few months."

"Oh, me, as well! You know how politics can be – a dreadful combination of mind-bending boredom and profound terror. And ever since all the nasty business with those dreadful rumors…"

"Yes," he says, voice flat. "The rumors."

"I've been doing all I can to contain them, of course, but they are saying…"

"Indeed," Draco interjects suddenly, "they _are_ saying, frequently and with great ardour. So far your only response has been to stick your fingers in your ears and bury your head in the sand."

The Minister gives a start and looks at Draco again – this time properly, thoroughly. He seems more startled than anything else. Clearly he isn't used to the feeling and sensation of blunt honesty.

"I – ah – well—"

"No official statements," Draco continues, "no gag orders on the press, no nothing. You've been recklessly allowing panic to spread through your entire country, directionless, virulent, and absolutely unchecked."

Minister Fudge blusters. "I never—!"

"Have you heard about the riots in Bristol? Seen the spike of criminal activity? People are frantic. I am forced to wonder, Minister, if you actually have any plans of _governing_ anytime soon while your country collapses under the weight of its own paranoia."

"I – that isn't – Lucius, _your son_—"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Cornelius," his father says, voice cool, "but my son is by several orders of magnitude the most intelligent person in this building. A disposition like his only survives by being right almost constantly."

The expression on Minister Fudge's face can only accurately be described as flustered. Or perhaps purple. He's nearly as purple as he is flustered.

He spends a few moments staring at Draco, mouth working but with no sound produced.

"Why are you _here?_" he finally says.

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious?" he returns. "A rich man and a smart man have barged into your office during a time of national crisis. We're here to do your job for you."


	53. 17 December, 1995

**Author's Note:** This chapter comes with a mild TRIGGER WARNING for EXTREMELY CREEPY AND RAPE-Y BEHAVIOR. While no actual rape occurs, it still might be troubling for some.

* * *

_I have little left in myself – I must have you._  
Charlotte Brontë

* * *

"Good morning, sweet girl."

Lyra smiles and stretches out her hands toward him. Draco's mind goes through a few relevant points about how six-month-olds will recognize familiar faces, but it's all drowned out when she starts—

"Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba!"

"Well said." Draco scoops her out of her cot and settles her on his hip. "Did you sleep well?"

"Ba."

"Good."

She grabs a fistful of his hair and Draco doesn't mind the way she tugs.

"So you managed to get the 'B' sound down," Draco says as he carries her out of the bedroom and into the hallway. "How are you doing with 'D'?"

"Ba," she answers.

"Draco?"

"Ba."

"Dra-co?"

She stares at him in contemplative silence for a moment, stuffs her hand into her mouth, then says, "Ba."

"All right, well, you're only six months old so I'll try not to hold this against you. Though just for the record, _I_ was saying my first word at eight months. But no pressure or anything."

Ever since the jailbreak – or, to be more specific, ever since a few dozen war criminals began living in and around the Malfoy Manor – Draco had kept Lyra confined to the east wing, where she is sequestered from anyone who had willingly tortured people. The wing has only a few bedrooms, a study, and a small sitting room they've been using as a dining room. It's not ideal, but it's perfectly serviceable, and a great deal safer.

He enters the makeshift dining room and tucks her into Lyra into her handsome mahogany high chair just as Dobby pops in.

Draco has just asked him to bring breakfast (with a box of raisins for Lyra, because handling small objects helps to improve hand-eye coordination) and fetched Lyra's favorite blue spoon when he hears the door open. He glances briefly over his shoulder, presuming it to be his father, but does a sharp doubletake when he's proven wrong.

Lord Voldemort glides into the room with an unnatural stillness. At once, Draco is filled with dread. He is always filled with dread whenever he and Lyra are in the same room. The trust and obedience the curse forces on him has never been enough to make Draco forget that his very young, very vulnerable baby sister is in the same room with a mass-murdering sociopath.

Draco is sure that he is not meant to forget.

"My Lord," he says stiffly, deftly inserting himself between him and Lyra's high chair.

"Little bird."

As she always does when he's in the room, Lyra starts to fuss and kick. Draco wants to comfort her, but he dares not take his eyes off the Dark Lord for an instant.

"Word from Avery is that the strings you've pulled are working. He's been put on a special committee designed to review the faculty of Hogwarts and report his findings to the Minister in an effort to remove anyone undesirable."

Draco nods.

"And the front page of _The Daily Prophet_ is decrying Harry Potter and his nonsensical, alarmist allegations that the Dark Lord has returned."

"It's amazing what a few well-worded bylaws will do, My Lord."

"Speaking of Harry Potter."

Draco's breath stutters. The Dark Lord has stopped walking, and he is looming down over Draco. He is extremely close, and Draco is suddenly aware of the fact that he is backed into the table.

"You'll be leaving in a few days." He is so very close. His heart is stammering against his ribs.

"Yes, My Lord."

"I confess that I still dislike this plan of yours," he says.

"I know, My Lord."

"I dislike any plan that keeps my right hand so far away."

"There is no alternative, My Lord."

"I especially dislike any plan that puts you so close to Harry Potter."

"I hate Harry Potter, My Lord."

The red of his eyes seems to darken. "I know."

He bends down. Draco's throat tightens.

"You won't forget who it is you belong to, will you, little bird?"

"I…" He swallows a knot in his throat. "No, My Lord."

"This little bird won't forget its cage, will it?"

"No…"

"No," the Dark Lord echoes, and there is a fingertip tracing the curve of Draco's hip and no, please, not now, not here, not in front of Lyra, is this really how it is going to culminate? "No, you won't. Do you know why I know you won't?"

Draco doesn't answer. He shuts his eyes and reminds himself (over and over and over) that long-term memories do not form this early, she will not remember, Merlin, please let her not remember, Draco could not bear it.

"I know you won't forget, because you would never so recklessly endanger your sister's life."

He sees right through the veiled threat. There is fear and anger and resentment and hatred and it is all wrapped up in the dreadful, oppressive nothing. The hand on his hip curls around the crest of the bone.

"You are frightened."

Lyra starts crying.

"I… I am unable to reconcile…"

The Dark Lord ducks his head. He lifts his free hand and knots it in Draco's hair. Draco makes a soft, broken sound.

"Say it, little bird," he says, voice low. "Say what it is you fear."

The words are caught in his throat. "Despite the subservience your curse forces upon me, I cannot reconcile the fact that by – by any definition – you…"

"Say it," he says again.

_SAY IT._

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. "Rape." It's such a vile word, an ugly word. It feels clumsy and terrible and heavy.

The Dark Lord makes a low, predatory sound.

"Not a problem I had ever pictured myself confronting," he confesses. "But as always, you are the exception to the rule. The way you command my senses is staggering. You pull me in with every movement, every act of simple, staggering genius. And how could I let you back to that filthy mongrel even for a few days without staking a claim?"

He is too close for Draco to see the expression on his face, but by the way the hand around his hip grips more tightly, he does not want to. His legs feel like they are about to give out.

Lyra keeps crying.

His other hand grips Draco's other hip and pulls, and _no, no, no,_ not in front of Lyra, not in front of Lyra, please no, please no—

_Crack_, from the doorway and Draco jerks with the force of the sound. The Dark Lord stills but does not withdraw. Draco forces open his eyes. His father is standing by the door, which has slammed against the wall.

He looks absolutely murderous, but he is not moving.

"Hmm," the Dark Lord says. His tone is almost conversational. "Your father's timing is almost too good to be true, isn't it?"

Draco doesn't answer. He can't.

"Do you have something to say, Lucius?"

"Bellatrix and Greyback have brought back the Muggle MP you asked for." His voice is short and his words are clipped, brutal.

"Hmm," he says again. "Shame. Later, perhaps."

And he withdraws, and Draco's weight falls against the table, and he wills his legs to stop shaking.

The Dark Lord walks toward the door to leave but his father does not move out of the way. For several very long seconds they stare at one another in dreadful, electric silence. The murder has not left his father's eyes. It's an entire conversation that goes completely unspoken. A challenge, a counter-challenge, a threat, a defiance. Neither of them back down, but the Dark Lord eventually pushes past and leaves.

Hands shaking, Draco moves around the table and scoops Lyra up. He hushes her as she wails into his shoulder.

"Draco."

Draco doesn't answer. He keeps hushing her.

"_Draco_."

"Don't."

"Has he forced himself on you?"

"Don't do this."

"_Draco, has he touched you?_"

Lyra's tiny arms wrap around Draco's neck as far as they can and Draco strokes her back and holds her and breathes in the scent in her downy blonde hair.

"What difference does it make?"

"It makes _every damn bit of difference!_"

"_Don't_ align yourself against him!" Draco snaps, and it only makes Lyra cry more. "Don't make yourself into his enemy! Don't make me turn on you!"

"Draco," his father snarls, "if he has laid a finger on you, you'll have to kill me yourself to keep me from ripping him apart."

"Do you honestly think you're speaking in hyperbole?" Draco snarls. "Do you think I won't? He made me kill Mother! If your risks outweigh your benefits, you'll have the same fate!"

The conversation is heavy with all the things they cannot, dare not say. His father is almost shaking from rage, and Draco cannot get Lyra to stop crying. He sinks into a dining room chair and holds her close, humming the old French lullaby.

He hears his father take a long, shuddering breath.

"You need to be alive," Draco whispers. "You need to make it out because if I don't, you'll be all Lyra has."

"Draco," he says. He sounds broken.

"Just don't," Draco says. "Please, don't. Please, please."


	54. 21 December, 1995

_But groundless hope, like unconditional love, is the only kind worth having._  
John Perry Barlow

* * *

"I think he's waking up."

"Just remember – you absolutely cannot trust him."

"I know."

"Harry, look at me."

He's in pain, but it's been dulled with potions. He tries to lift a hand to his face but finds that both hands are bound to the wall against which he is leaning.

"_You cannot trust him_."

"I know. Hermione, I know."

Oh, good. So it worked, then.

Draco blinks open his eyes, but it takes a while for his vision to adjust to the brightness of the room. The room smells of dust and the floor under him is hardwood. He seems to be in, he discovers as his awareness sharpens, a cleared-out sitting room.

If Draco had to hazard a guess, he'd say that he was in Grimmauld Place.

"Hello, Draco."

It's a different voice this time – higher, wispier, slightly dizzy.

"I'm sorry about tying you up, but you're very dangerous."

Luna is crouched down in front of him. Seeing her face is strange. It feels like it's been half a year.

It has, he belatedly realizes.

"Quite all right, Luna," Draco replies. "I dare say I'm rather used to being tied up in magical lockdown rooms at this point."

He gives his wrists a tug again, and finds that they're being held to the wall by two Ravenclaw ties.

"I appreciate the house loyalty, though."

"Yes," Luna answers, "I thought you might."

"It's more comfortable than rope would be," says another voice – Draco looks over and sees Hermione Granger, arms folded over her chest, "and they're Goblin silk, so they won't go tearing."

"Yes, well done," Draco says, "you've successfully tied up an unconscious teenager. I'm sure you'll look back on this fondly in your twilight years."

"How are you feeling?"

Draco looks over his other shoulder. Harry is standing a few feet away, in his ratty scarlet jumper Draco could never get him to throw away.

Draco tries to identify what exactly is twisting in his chest, and decides that it is hate. Yes, it must be hate.

He makes a face.

"I'm feeling tied up, thanks for asking," he snaps.

"You know we have to."

"The Dark Lord also tied me up," Draco says lowly. "But then, you knew that, didn't you?"

A look of intense pain passes over Harry's face, and Draco is pleased to see it. Isn't he?

"The difference," Hermione interjects, "is that everyone here cares about you and won't hurt you. We're going to take the curse off you."

"Mhm," Draco says. "Does it bother you that it's impossible?"

"No," Harry says.

"Slightly," Luna admits.

"Best of luck to you, then. I'll be over here being tied up."

"You won't find it," Luna says suddenly.

"Luna," sighs Hermione.

"What?" Luna returns, looking back at her. "You think he doesn't know that we know that he knows that we—?"

"I'm putting a preemptive stop to this sentence," Draco decides.

"We know you let yourself get captured," Harry says. "We know you're looking for the Horcrux. But it's not here."

"That is neither surprising nor detrimental to my effort," Draco says, glaring up at Harry. "None of you really know how to search, anyway."

"And you think you can find it while you're tied up?" Hermione says indignantly.

"Not only can I find it while I'm tied up," Draco answers, "I can do it in less than a week before breaking out of here entirely."

"Cocky bastard," Harry says, and there's a smile on his face that's more sadness than joy.

"Then we'll just have to break the curse before then, won't we?" says Hermione.

"What are you even doing here?" Draco asks, eyeing her. "Since when are you and Luna associated with the Order of the Phoenix?"

"We're not, strictly speaking," Luna answers. "We're part of the DA."

"Merlin's pants, how many secret enemy organizations does the Dark Lord have to deal with?" Draco asks. "And just what the hell is the DA?"

"It stands for Draco's Army," Harry says. His voice is quiet.

Draco purses his lips. "I've got my own army now, have I?"

"You always did, even when it was just me." Harry kneels down next to him. "You're not what the DA is fighting for, you're just a symbol. You're a reminder of exactly what we're up against and why it's a battle worth fighting."

Draco meets Harry's eyes. The green of them seems more impossibly intense than Draco's memory. It fills him with hatred so overpowering that it makes his heart stutter.

"We're going to get this curse off you," Harry swears. "Professor Snape has given us a lot of ideas."

"I know," Draco returns. "We were counting on him to collaborate with you to get me here."

"This is all very messy," Luna says. "Why do we pretend to have secrets when everyone knows everything?"

"So that means it comes down to who can work faster," Hermione says, bypassing Luna's comment, even though Draco thought it was a fair question, "us or you."

Draco looks up at her and meets her gaze unwaveringly. "And doesn't that just scare the hell out of you?"

Hermione lifts her chin, but the nervousness is there. Draco can see it smoldering in her eyes.

"I'm not frightened," Harry says. "I know we'll break the curse, because if we don't, that means I'll lose you again, and I'll never let that happen."

The hatred in Draco is intensifying even further, making his throat tight and his eyes burn. It's a hatred so strong it almost physically hurts to look at Harry. It must be hate. It has to be hate.


	55. 23 December, 1995

_I loved my friend  
He went away from me  
There's nothing more to say  
The poem ends,  
Soft as it began—  
I loved my friend_  
Langston Hughes

* * *

"There's no way we're breaking the curse before we get that collar off him."

"Harry," Sirius sighs, "breaking an Imperius curse from the outside is impossible enough, but this collar – we don't know how it works. Tampering with it could kill him."

"Oh, my God," Draco says, mostly to himself, "are you people actually thinking in slow motion or have I spent my entire life overestimating normal people?"

Ignoring the comment, Harry continues: "It doses him with deadly venom every time he disobeys! What do you think will happen when the curse is _broken?_"

"There are antivenoms—" Sirius begins, but Harry cuts him off.

"In the doses he'd need it, they'd be nearly as dangerous as the venom!"

"Is this really the speed your minds work at?" Draco asks. "What is it _like_ in your heads? It must be so _boring._"

Sirius glares at him. "Or maybe we could just let the little bastard suffer through the venom."

Harry makes a sound like a snarl. "What's your problem?"

Sirius looks back at Harry, frowning. "All I'm saying is he hasn't made the best impression—"

"What," Harry interrupts, "still holding a grudge against him after he stopped you from terrorizing a school full of children?"

Sirius straightens, darkens. "You know that's not what it was about."

"He's being combative because he's under the Imperius curse," Harry snaps. "What's your excuse for being an asshole to him?"

"Harry," says a soft, weary voice from the door, "go easy on him."

Professor Lupin – _well, not a professor anymore,_ Draco's mind supplies – is standing in the doorway with a bowl full of clear amber liquid in one hand and a rag over his arm.

"Maybe once he starts going easy on Draco," Harry says. He still sounds defensive, but his hackles are back down.

"Sirius has a deeply-rooted knee-jerk hatred for anyone of the Black bloodline," Lupin explains, crossing the room and crouching down at Draco's side. He dips the rag into the liquid. "He can't help it."

"Take a kid into your home and this is the thanks you get," Sirius says. He doesn't sound angry anymore, mostly just tired.

"Being preferable to the Dursleys doesn't say much," Harry reminds him coldly.

Lupin opens Draco's shirt and, with the dampened cloth, gently dabs at some of the old wounds along his ribs – the twisting map of angry scar tissue from the torture that had never healed right, that had fractured some of the bones in strange ways and torn the muscles.

"Essence of dittany?" Draco guesses.

"It's slow-acting," Lupin says, "but it should help fix everything that healed wrong."

Somehow Draco is both surprised and not surprised at the kindness the Order has been showing him.

"I'll try to look into the collar a little more," Sirius tells Harry, "but just keeping him here while he's still under the Imperius is dangerous. If we can't find any solid leads soon, we'll have to focus on just breaking the curse."

"Hermione and Luna can help with research," Harry says.

"They already are."

Harry sighs. He looks over at Draco just as Lupin finishes with the essence of dittany and rises to his feet.

"Can we have a moment?" Harry asks.

"Harry," says Lupin gently.

"He'll be fine."

"It's not just him I'm worried about."

"Come on, Remus," Sirius says, "it's fine."

Lupin sighs, puts a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder, and walks out, a few steps behind Sirius. When the door closes, Harry has not moved.

This is not the first time Harry's been alone with Draco since he first arrived, of course. It had happened at least five times in two days, and they only got more aggravating and uncomfortable. If Draco didn't know any better, he'd think—

"It's like you're trying to break the Imperius curse with sheer force of _love_."

Harry's reaction is not immediate. The smile that appears on his face is slow, tragic. It raises new levels of hate in Draco that he did not know he was capable of.

"Is that really so ridiculous a notion?"

"Of course it bloody well is," Draco snaps. "Love can't break a curse."

"Why not?"

"Because that's stupid and ridiculous and fairytalesque and doesn't happen in the real world."

"There are more things in heaven and earth than exist in your philosophy," Harry says.

"I never should have gotten you into Shakespeare," Draco groans, his head hitting the wall behind him.

Harry sits down next to him. The heat of him sends little sparks of – of – Draco doesn't even know what it is – but they move in arcs and currents along his nerves and Draco feels inexplicably caught in Harry's gravity. This is hatred, isn't it?

"This may be the first and last time I'll ever say it, but I think you're wrong," Harry says. "I think love can break a curse. I think it might be the strongest thing in the world."

"That is sentimental poppycock," Draco says. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, hot and restless, almost itchy. It's unbearable.

"Is it?"

"He ordered me to hate you."

Harry gives a start. "Voldemort?"

Draco bares his teeth. "Obviously." He grips the silk ties binding his arms so tightly it hurts, so tightly it cuts off the blood flow to his fingertips and they start to tingle.

"Oh," Harry says. The expression on his face is inscrutable, and Draco is pretty sure he wants to slap it. "Do you?"

"_Yes,_" Draco hisses. "Yes, I hate you. I hate you so much I can't bear it. Just being near you makes me crazy. Everything about you just – you set me on fire, you make me insane, I can't stand it."

Harry is silent a moment. "That doesn't sound like hate to me," he says.

"It is," Draco snaps. "It has to be. What else can it be?"

Harry swallows. All of a sudden, he looks like he's about to cry, though not from sadness. He opens his mouth like he's going to respond, when the door suddenly squeaks. Draco is glad for the distraction, because his hands are shaking and the hatred is making him physically hurt.

"Kreacher has brought Master Draco food."

Harry takes a deep, shuddering breath. "He's not your master, Kreacher."

"Master Draco is an heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!" Kreacher protests. He shambles into the room, a large silver tray full of food floating along behind him. "Kreacher is happy to serve Master Draco."

The door swings open further and Luna pokes her head in before Harry can respond.

"Harry," she says, "Hermione wants to talk to you."

Harry opens his mouth, looks at Draco, and frowns. Draco frowns right back at him.

"I…" Harry swallows down the emotion that's still written all over his face. "Yeah, all right."

Draco watches him leave, flexing his fingers to keep his hands from shaking.

"Kreacher thinks it is indefensible that they are holding Master Draco this way," Kreacher says, bustling over just as the door closes and setting the tray down in Draco's lap. "Master Draco is of pure blood and good breeding and should not be bound!"

"Kreacher," Draco says, "you served Master Regulus, didn't you?"

Kreacher looks up at him, startled. "Yes," he answers, "Kreacher did."

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," Draco says. "But you must not tell anyone."


	56. 25 December, 1995

_And this love is about to carry me off somewhere. This current's too overpowering; I don't have any choice. It may very well be a special place, some place I've never seen before. Danger may be lurking there, something that may end up wounding me deeply, fatally. I might end up losing everything._  
Haruki Murakami

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

Draco opens his eyes. It's Lupin with his bowl full of essence of dittany, looking exhausted and somewhat bedraggled.

"1,151 is the highest happy prime number I can come up with," Draco answers. "Also my legs are falling asleep."

"That bad, huh?"

"Well, I've already figured out where the Horcrux is," Draco says, "so at this point I'm sort of just killing time before my escape opportunity presents itself."

Lupin arcs an eyebrow and kneels down next to Draco, dabbing the cloth in the essence of dittany. "You're just going to share that information with me? Seems risky."

"Not as risky as you might think."

As he opens Draco's shirt again, he asks, "What's a happy prime number?"

"Any number where the sum of the squares of its digits adds down to one is a happy number," says Draco, watching as Lupin dabs at the scars. "A happy prime is a number that's both happy and prime. It's recreational mathematics. Keeps the brain busy."

"You know, Sirius always thought Harry was exaggerating about you."

"Well, no offense, but Sirius is a bit of a prick."

"A bit," Lupin concedes, smiling tiredly, "but then again, so are you."

Draco supposes he has to concede that point. "The truth resists simplicity."

"Doesn't it just."

Draco looks down, watching as Lupin dabs the sweet-smelling liquid across the ugly tangle of scars across his ribs. Lupin sets the bowl down to adjust his angle.

"Curious thing, essence of dittany," Draco says. "Woefully underappreciated as a healing agent."

Lupin hums. "It was a miracle when I discovered it," he says. "Saved me a great many scars. If I'd known of it earlier I might not have any at all."

"Fun fact," Draco continues, "did you know that essence of dittany is also an abrasive agent?"

Lupin glances up at him with a frown, as though he's not sure where Draco's going with his point.

"It's very gentle on human skin, but it reacts violently with certain organic compounds. For example, it can completely dissolve Goblin silk in seconds."

Before Lupin has a chance to react, Draco jerks his knee up and it cracks loudly against the side of his head. Lupin jerks, then collapses, and with another quick movement of his foot, Draco knocks the bowl of essence of dittany over, where it splashes into his arm – with a hiss and a snarl of smoke, the Ravenclaw tie dissolves. Draco grabs the bowl and does the same to free his other hand.

He knows that he only has a few minutes to make this work. Over the past few days he's memorized the routine, such that it is, of the Order through the door, and he knows that before long Nymphadora Tonks (and really, how many cousins does he have in this organization?) will be coming down and asking Lupin if he wants a cup of tea. He ducks out of the sitting room and, pressing himself close to the wall, hurries down the hallway.

He's made it out to the front corridor and has thrown on a nondescript black cloak from a hook on the wall. He reaches out for the doorway—

—when, quite abruptly, the door bars itself. Draco whirls around.

Harry is standing on the opposite end of the foyer. His hand is outstretched but he doesn't appear to have a wand.

"You bastard," Draco says, though he finds he isn't actually angry, "you stole my wand hand idea."

Harry smirks, though he hasn't left his dueling stance. "Hermione got into your notes," he explains. "It's a pretty popular procedure within the DA now."

That stupid-gorgeous-infuriating-hateful smirk of his sends new waves of anger radiating in all directions through Draco's body. It's been so long since he's seen it.

"You can't possibly think you can really stop me from getting out of here," Draco says.

Harry flexes the fingers of his outstretched hand.

"No," he answers. "No, I know I can't stop you. I was hoping – I had wanted to get that collar off, but we weren't able to…"

Draco narrows his eyes.

"Two days ago," Harry continues, taking a half-step forward, and Draco raises his own hand, fingers splayed and ready to attack, "you told me that Voldemort ordered you to hate me. I told you what you described didn't sound like hatred, and you asked me what else it could be. I didn't get to give you an answer."

Harry keeps moving closer. Draco knows that this is the perfect opportunity to attack; Harry wouldn't expect it, and Draco could get away. A quick _Avada Kedavra_, a _stupefy_, anything, anything at all. _Cast it,_ Draco's mind tells him, but Draco's magic doesn't obey. _Cast it! He's not expecting it!_

"It's the one thing that Voldemort's magic couldn't even touch," Harry says. His voice is low. It tears things up in Draco's chest. "The only thing that can break an Unforgivable Curse. You scoffed, Draco, but it's true. The Imperius can only mask it, but it can't change it. Voldemort didn't understand. He couldn't understand."

The pieces fall into place on their own accord as Harry moves ever closer and _no, no,_ that's not possible, how is that possible?

"I just want you to know," Harry says, "I love you, too."

The fingertips of Harry's outstretched hand brush Draco's, and immediately following is a strange but familiar sensation – fluttering.

The butterfly passes off Harry's hand and flaps its way down Draco's forearm.

Something deep inside Draco twists. It's deeper than the curse, deeper than his bones. It is at the very core of him, and it quavers with every tiny movement of that monarch butterfly as it spirals around his elbow and onto his shoulder. Draco finds that his entire arm is shaking.

"You took it off before the Third Task," Harry says. "I thought you might want it back."

Draco makes a strange and broken sound.

There is pain, then. Hot and intense, burning him up. It follows the butterfly's wings.

The venom, Draco realizes belatedly.

The pain grows in intensity but it cannot hold a candle to the force of emotion. He trembles like a leaf in the wind an the butterfly finds its way to his chest, sitting on his breastbone and gently flapping its wings.

"Draco," Harry says.

"No."

"Draco—"

"_No._ No, no, no, no, no, _no, no, no—!_"

The pain thrums, it burns, it boils; Draco is blind with tears and he casts a repulsion spell that sends Harry flying back.

Draco spins and shoves at the bar on the door and the pain does not go away, it only gets _more_ intense, he pushes his way outside and runs, runs, runs, but he can't outrun the magic that is cracking, burning, shattering him, the venom that rages through him, the pain that makes him delirious, or the tiny butterfly that sits on his chest and flaps its wings.

He can feel the curse as it cracks and starts to crumble.


	57. 26 December, 1995

_I will not have my life narrowed down. I will not bow down to someone else's whim or to someone else's ignorance._  
bell hooks

* * *

Draco makes it back to the still and quiet Malfoy Manor to the sound of the grandfather clock chiming midnight and his heart beating in his ear.

He is in so much pain that he can barely force himself to move. He feels like he is on fire, physically falling apart, breaking open at the seams. The venom sears, and that butterfly, that _damn butterfly_—

He pushes his way into his bedroom in the east wing and throws up a silencing spell before he allows himself to scream from the sheer, utter _agony_.

Lyra immediately begins to cry, but Draco can barely hear her.

He collapses forward onto his hands and knees, sure that he is dying, this is dying, how could a pain so intense be anything but? Draco remembers those agonizing weeks of torture and they are _nothing_, they are _nothing_ compared to this, and the only thing, the only thought that makes it through the haze of mind-shattering pain—

_He is in love with Harry Potter._

And isn't that ridiculous? Isn't it hateful? Isn't it impossible, insane, preposterous? Isn't it in direct defiance to the Dark Lord's wishes?

And isn't it the most perfectly clarifying, uncomplicated thing in Draco's world?

In all the pain and chaos and misery and darkness, Draco is in love with Harry Potter, and it is steady and strong like a rock in the stormy sea, brilliant and unignorable like the sun, vast and calm and patient like the cosmos.

And it is breaking through the binding magic that holds it, breaking through and ripping Draco apart with the pain of it, God, the pain of it will kill him, he is sure it will kill him.

Draco screams and screams and breaks and burns and—

—_crack!_—

—collapses.

And for a few moments, there is nothing – no sound, no light, no anchor to reality. He is free-floating, and Draco considers the possibility that he is dead.

But his senses come back to him, slowly, in pulses and rushes like the tide. There is pain first, but it is muted and manageable. Then there is light, filtering through the hair that has fallen in front of his eyes. Then there is crying.

Lyra—

He lifts his head, slowly, and looks toward her cot. The hazy shapes sharpen. He can see her through the wooden bars, kicking her feet and reaching into the air.

Draco tries to speak and it comes out as a croak: "It's okay…"

He pushes down the pain – more venom, more venom – and struggles to his feet. He stumbles to her cot. The sight of him seems to calm her down, though she is still red-faced and gurgling.

"It's okay," Draco says. "It's okay, it's going to be okay."

He scoops her up and finds he does not have the strength to hold both of them up, so he sinks down onto the floor against her cot and cradles her to his chest.

"It's going to be okay, Lyra," Draco says, and there's a wetness on his face – tears, he realizes, rolling unbidden down to his jaw. "It's all going to be fine."

The venom comes in pulses, little droplets every second. Perhaps it's the shock or perhaps it's the fact that his body's just built up a certain level of immunity to the venom, but the pain seems distant, almost manageable.

He kisses Lyra's forehead and her tiny hands splay across his cheeks, smearing the tears.

"It's going to be okay," he tells her, speaking even as his voice breaks, even though the pain, while dulled, is still burning through his veins, "we're going to make it through this, you and I. You don't have to be scared."

She sniffs and looks up at him, her blue eyes bloodshot, her cornsilk-colored hair mussed, her pajamas twisted around her stomach. Draco forces himself to smile.

He swipes his thumb across the soft flesh of her cheek, wiping her tears away.

"It's all over now," Draco tells her, and it is. "That psychopath has no more power over me," he says, and he doesn't. "I am free." And he is. He is weakened and in pain and scarred almost beyond recognition, but he is free and, "That's all that matters."

Lyra grips Draco's index finger with her hand.

Draco leans his head against hers. "And I'll kill him," he whispers.

"Da," Lyra says.

"I will kill him," he vows. "I'll kill him for what he did to me, what he forced me to do to mother, to Professor Snape. What he put me through."

His voice breaks. His tears keep pouring, and he hugs Lyra to his chest.

"I swear, Lyra, I _swear_," he says, "you will grow up in a world in which he's nothing but a memory."

"Da," Lyra says again and Draco curls forward over her. He thinks of his mother, of Professor Snape, of the torture, and he sobs – not because it has broken him, but because it's strengthened him, because it has made him into the Dark Lord's nightmare, because it means that he is _free_.


	58. 12 January, 1996

_May the God of vengeance now yield me His place to punish the wicked._  
Alexandre Dumas

* * *

When Draco steps out of the Floo, the first thing he sees is Professor Snape, entering from the adjoining lounge with a book under his arm. He starts when he sees him.

"Draco."

Draco takes in a breath. He's sure it's not easy for Professor Snape to see him. It isn't easy for Draco, either.

"I—" he begins, but falters, "—I didn't know you had returned."

"I haven't, officially," Draco says. He moves forward, but his gait is staggered and clumsy. He flexes his hands at his sides. "Professor, I need your help."

Professor Snape seems to recoil slightly. He hasn't worked it out, not yet. "With what?"

"Antivenom."

His reaction is slow coming. First, raised eyebrows – then a straightened back and set shoulders – then, the brutal onslaught of sudden clarity.

"I brewed myself a batch, but I ran out and – my hands—"

Draco lifts them. He has not been able to stop them from trembling for nearly a week. It's made spellwork difficult, writing almost impossible.

"Oh, God," Professor Snape says.

"I have a special brew with a strong numbing agent, but it has side-effects," Draco explains. "I brought the recipe, but it's—"

The book under Professor Snape's arm thumps onto the floor. In a heartbeat he has closed the distance between them and pulled Draco into his arms. He grips Draco so tightly that he almost cannot breathe.

"Draco," he says into his hair.

Draco suddenly finds that his eyes are burning. It's been so long…

Draco returns the embrace, fisting his hands in the back of Professor Snape's robe.

"Draco," he says again, "oh, God, Draco – how did you – how could you possibly—?"

"Does it matter?" Draco asks, voice cracking.

Professor Snape makes a small noise – a sob, he realizes – and grips Draco all the tighter. "It doesn't matter," he says. "It doesn't matter – Draco, I'm so sorry—"

"Please don't."

"Draco—"

"I can't. Not now."

His pulls back and looks down at Draco. All the harsh lines of his face have softened.

"If I confront it now, I'll fall apart," Draco says. "And if I fall apart, I'm not sure I'll be able to put myself together again."

Professor Snape's hands are on his shoulders, and they grip tightly. It's the only sign of the rage boiling just under his skin.

"Does your father know?"

"It's better if he doesn't," Draco says. "Safer."

He hesitates a moment, but eventually nods in agreement. He swallows visibly and kisses the top of Draco's head.

"Show me this recipe," he says.

Draco produces it from his pocket with his shaking hands, a small, folded piece of parchment that Professor Snape takes when offered. He unfolds it and spends a while reading over the ingredients.

"And not to put too much pressure on you," Draco says, "but if I don't get another dose soon, my kidneys are liable to fail."

"Draco," Professor Snape says severely, "this potion—"

"I know."

"These ingredients are extremely potent—"

"I _know_, Professor. You think I don't know?"

"The antivenom alone could shred your nerves, but this numbing agent—!"

"It's all preferable to _dying_," Draco snaps, which seems to quiet Professor Snape. "Look, I can't take the collar off. Not yet. If I want to undo any of the damage I've caused, I need to remain in the Dark Lord's inner circle. As soon as I've done what needs doing, filled in the gaps in my understanding, as soon as it's safe, I'll take Lyra and get out."

Professor Snape frowns. "So you're out for vengeance now?"

"_Vengeance?_ To hell with vengeance, I'm out for _blood_."

The response seems to startle him. "Draco—"

"He _forced me_ to kill my mother. To torture _you_. He spent months dangling the threat of _rape_ over my head. I have blood on my hands thanks to him! I don't just want to destroy him, I want to _erase_ him, _undo_ him, until all that's left is _atoms and unpleasant memories!_"

Silence falls, tense and thick. Draco realizes, somewhat belatedly, that his heartbeat is slamming in the side of his neck and there's hot fury boiling in his chest.

Perhaps he shouldn't have shouted.

"Draco," Professor Snape says eventually, quietly, "promise me that you won't let your thirst for retribution become more important than your life."

Draco watches him for a while as he tries to catch up with his breath. It strikes him at first as such a peculiar question, but eventually, he understands the premise. There is a dark and quiet part of Draco that would gladly sacrifice his life if it meant ending Voldemort.

It does not scare him. There's not much left that does, Draco supposes.

"I can only promise to do my best," he says.

"For my sake," Professor Snape says.

Draco sets his face, nods. "For your sake." He might as well do it for Professor Snape, because he wouldn't do it for himself.

He sighs and looks back down at the paper, dark eyes moving down the list of ingredients.

"I can have it ready in twenty minutes," he says.

"Good," Draco answers. "Good. I'm dying for a cup of tea – would you mind—?"

"Of course not. You know where it all is."

Draco nods and starts past him, rubbing his hands together. Professor Snape departs through the other door, down toward his potions laboratory in the cellar. Draco is halfway to the kitchen when he spies a familiar shape from the corner of his eye.

Lying abandoned in the corner of the room, beneath an endtable next to an armchair, is the tiny, black rubber ball Professor Snape gave him all those years ago.

The sight of it gives him pause. Draco had thought it lost. He hesitates in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room, then crouches down and picks it up with his thin, trembling hands.

It's dusty and cold to the touch, and the rubber seems more worn than Draco remembers. He turns it over in his fingers and, for the first time in so many years, thinks about the comfort he used to find in chaos, the philosophical reassurance of meaningless entropy in an uncaring universe.

He finds that there is no more comfort there. Perhaps Draco has had enough chaos for his lifetime.

He pockets it anyway before moving through to the kitchen.


	59. 8 February, 1996

_I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain._  
James Baldwin

* * *

"The little bird has returned to his cage after all!"

Draco stops and realizes that up until this point, he has never really understood hate.

Hate is nothing like the fire the Imperius curse tried to foist on Harry. It is nothing like the softly simmering anger he felt for Rita Skeeter.

Hate does not burn. Hate freezes. It is cold and still and so intensely clarifying.

He turns and sees the Dark Lord walking toward him, and the hatred moves through his veins with every heartbeat, sapping the warmth from his skin.

And Draco smiles.

"Of course I did, My Lord."

"How went the mission?"

"I traced the location of the locket, My Lord," Draco answers. "It was in the hands of one Dolores Umbridge, under the employ of the Ministry of Magic. She bought it off Mundungus Fletcher, who found it in Grimmauld Place, thought it worthless, and tried to pawn it."

Voldemort hums vaguely, coming to a stop a few feet away from Draco. "And where is it now?"

_Hurtling toward the sun, you snake-faced piece of human garbage._

It's a good thing Professor Snape gave him a crash course in occlumency. It's also a good thing Draco had been smart enough to master it in a few days.

"Safe for now," Draco lies effortlessly. "Once we have the diadem, we'll send them both through the rift together."

He makes a face. "Yes," he says lowly, "the diadem. Avery has been showing a startling level of incompetence in retrieving it for me. If he takes much longer, I fear I'll have to send you in, little bird, as much as I dislike the idea."

The Dark Lord cards a hand through Draco's hair and the sheer, overwhelming hatred nearly freezes his heart in place.

And all Draco does is smile.

"I have another very important mission for you."

"Yes, My Lord?"

"It deals with Harry Potter."

Draco keeps a very tight reign on his expression. He only lets the vaguest look of surprise pass over his face. "Harry Potter?"

"Come."

He jerks his head toward the drawing room, now dark and empty. Draco shudders at the idea of being alone with him, but knows he has no choice in the matter. He follows him inside.

Nagini is curled up by the fireplace, which gives the only light in the room. It casts strange, angled shadows through the legs of the chairs lining the table and lights the ornamental weaponry along the walls in a peculiar bas-relief.

"Over these months you have proven yourself an invaluable resource and trusted ally, little bird," Voldemort says, stopping beside Nagini near the fireplace, his back to Draco. "It is for this reason I am going to let you in on a most critical and guarded secret."

Draco takes in a breath. "A secret to do with Harry Potter?"

"There is a prophecy…"

He trails off, and Draco frowns. For a few seconds all that can be heard is the soft crackling of the firewood. Eventually, he continues.

"A prophecy that says he has the power to vanquish me."

Draco nearly makes a comment about how he'd done it once before but manages to swallow it before it works its way out of his throat.

"He has 'a power that I know not.'"

Draco frowns. "I'd as you what it is, but that seems antithetical."

"I have recently discovered that I am missing half of this prophecy."

He turns sharply, robe swirling, and he looms down over Draco. Draco refuses to flinch on principle.

"I need the other half," he says. "Now especially. Avery tells me that the boy is rallying an army in Hogwarts, that he and the Order are conspiring. I do not like this, little bird."

"Understandably, My Lord."

"I am charging you with finding some record of the prophecy. There may exist a copy in the Department of Mysteries."

Draco frowns, but shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, a prophecy can only be handled by its subjects. We can't risk sneaking you into the Ministry, and it would be ridiculous to try and somehow lure Potter in; far too many variables. Do we know who prophesied it?"

He inclines his head. "Sibyll Trelawney."

The answer catches Draco off-guard. "Really? Sibyll Trelawney?"

"You seem surprised."

"I _am_ surprised," he admits. "I didn't think she could prophesy her way out of a dark room."

"Severus was there when she foretold it. It was most certainly her."

Draco shakes his head. Wonders never cease.

"We should bring her in and interrogate her," he says.

"She was in a trance, little bird. She won't remember."

"Not under normal circumstances, My Lord," Draco says, "but there are potions that can jog her memory. Kickstart her Eye."

And quite without Draco noticing how he got there, the Dark Lord is in front of him – close, very close – looming down over him, shrouded by the shadow cast by the firelight behind him.

In the past these moments elicited nothing but a sort of existential dread. Now Draco feels nothing but pure, deep, visceral disgust. It takes everything in him to maintain his composure, to keep his face straight and his eyes fixed on Voldemort's.

"I will arrange for Avery to have her removed from Hogwarts, then, and brought here," he says. "Presumably he can handle _that_, if he cannot manage to find a simple diadem."

"I am sure it has less to do with competence and more to do with Albus Dumbledore thwarting him at every turn," Draco says.

He does not react well to Dumbledore's name. It draws a snarling sneer from him, which deepens the furrows of his chalk-white face.

Draco decides to bring up Albus Dumbledore more often, if only because he finds he quite enjoys causing him pain.

Still, the Dark Lord does not move away. The hate twists deeper. Draco did not even know that it was possible to hate someone so thoroughly, so profoundly, with such indescribable intensity and ardor.

"I am certain you will not let me down," he says, and in his head Draco repeats what has become his mantra: _I will undo you. I will undo you._


	60. 19 March, 1996

_We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be._  
Kurt Vonnegut

* * *

There is a part of Draco – small, but loud – that misses the days when he felt nothing.

He stands outside the entrance to the cellars. The screams of Professor Trelawney carry up the steps.

_Bitch is resisting. Go on up, pup, I'll get her to cooperate._

Draco shuts his eyes tightly, willing the memory out of his head, willing away the sadistic smirk on Greyback's face, the way his thick fingers twitched in eager anticipation, the look of fear on Professor Trelawney's face.

A hand rests on his shoulder. Draco's eyes fly open.

Professor Snape is standing across from him. The empathy on his face pulls all the little threads in Draco that unravel him.

"How do you do it?" Draco asks.

Snape opens his mouth to answer but is cut-off by a high, frantic wail of pain from the cellar. He flinches.

"Not easily," he admits.

Draco rubs his face with both hands. The pain from the venom comes and goes whenever Draco can force himself to focus on other things, but tonight it is very, very strong, a consistent and unbearable throb that runs along every nerve.

"It helps to keep in mind why you're doing it," he says eventually, leaning against the wall next to Draco. His voice is soft, even though Draco knows there's no one around to hear. "I remind myself of Lily. Of Harry. Of you."

"Where does the ethical imperative come in?" Draco asks, speaking into his hands. "How much good justifies what amount of evil? How can one be expected to stand by even with greater goals in mind, when – when—"

There's another desperate scream of agony. Draco's entire body shudders at the sound.

"It's a question I have wrestled with every day since I joined the Order," Professor Snape admits. "Dumbledore assures me that for every life I am forced to let end, a thousand more are saved, but all I can think of is the one. Who am I to say one life is worth less than a thousand? Who is anyone?"

Draco can hear Professor Trelawney's broken sobbing reverberating up the stairwell. A part of him wants to close the door to muffle the sound of it. Another part of him dares not, because he does not want to let himself forget what is happening even for a second.

"There is no absolute morality," Professor Snape says. "All the gods of man threaten different hells for different sins and all of them are meaningless in a chaotic universe. Morality is something that must be chosen. Once you know what you would kill for, what you would die for, the only sin is betraying it."

"I don't think I can do this for much longer," Draco whispers, and below him, Professor Trelawney screams and screams. "I want to undo him, but I can't do it like this."

"Then don't."

There are footsteps on the stairwell. Draco stuffs his trembling hands into the pockets of his robe.

"You should go," he says. "We can't be seen speaking too often, it—"

"I know."

Professor Snape puts a hand on Draco's head and kisses his temple before turning and striding away.

Moments later, Greyback emerges from the doorway leading into the cellar. He is splattered with blood, mad-eyed, smiling with deadly and vicious Schadenfreude.

"Softened her up," he says, and his voice is conversational. "She's ready to talk. See what you can get out of her, pup."

Draco nods. He knows his face does not betray his thoughts. If nothing else, these past few months have made him into a world-class actor.

And he descends the steps, even though he fears seeing what is at the bottom.

Around a corner and through a door, Professor Trelawney – or what is left of her – is magically bound to a chair. The state of her sends waves of nausea through Draco, and triggers something deeper in him—

—_barbed whips ripping flesh breaking bones blood fountaining no no no no stop it stop it stop it please stop please stop—_

For a moment Draco sways in his spot. He presses a hand to the wall to steady himself, to remind him that _this_ is real, _this_ moment, the torture is over, it's nothing but scars and memories now.

"I can see into your heart."

Draco opens his eyes but has to blink them a few times to see past the tears that blur his vision.

Professor Trelawney's pupils are blown wide, and through the blood matting her hair and running down her face, she is ashen.

Draco knows that she has been given an overlarge dose of distilled jasmine oil mainlined into her carotid artery. It has made her hazy and uncoordinated, but it has opened her Eye, likely wider than it ever has been.

"You are not like the rest."

Draco swallows a sob.

"You've come to ask me about the prophecy."

It takes everything in Draco not to stare at the gashes that run across her stomach and chest, not to look at her mangled, broken fingers.

"I am so sorry," Draco says. "Professor, I'm so sorry—"

"I don't want your pity," she tells him. "All I want is your mercy. I will tell you what you need to know if you promise me your mercy."

Draco shuts his eyes and takes a few breaths.

"You know of what I speak."

Draco nods because he cannot manage to form words.

"Swear me your mercy."

The words still refuse to come, even though Draco wills himself to speak.

"There is no way I can make it out of this," she says, and Draco believes her. "Your mercy is my only chance at freedom now."

"I promise," Draco chokes. The smell of blood is thick in the air; it twists all the darkest parts in Draco's mind and makes him shake. "I promise you my mercy."

A moment of silence passes. Her head sags to her chest and she takes a few breaths made wet by the blood in her mouth.

"You have questions about Harry Potter," she says. "His destiny is a spiderweb. A thousand radiations and connections that all lead to one fixed point."

Draco swallows. "Fixed point?"

"That is what destiny is," she explains. "Or fate, or prophecy – call it what you like. Time is chaos – choice and chance and probability punctuated by specific moments that are fixed. Moments that have to happen, that have always happened, that always will happen. You've seen one already."

She looks up at him.

"The graveyard," she continues.

"His resurrection," Draco says, and she nods once, weakly.

"That was a fixed point," she says, "an event that was always going to happen. But it is not the last that you will see. Before you come of age, you will see another – you will see death."

Draco steps forward. "Whose death?"

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,_" she whispers, and at once Draco knows he is hearing the prophecy. "_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not._"

She lifts her eyes to Draco's.

"_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._"

"So Harry is going to be the one to kill him," Draco says. Not impossible to believe. He nearly did it once before when he was an infant.

"Yes," she says. "He will kill the Dark Lord. And the Dark Lord will kill him."

Time dilates. For a moment, Draco can hear the sounds of his own heart.

"No," Draco says.

"That is the fixed point," she says.

"_No,_" Draco repeats. "That is not going to happen. I will not let that happen."

"For all the chaos you have seen, one would think you'd be grateful for a little certainty."

"Fuck certainty," Draco says, and his voice is shaking. "And fuck chaos. Fuck destiny and fuck the prophecy. I will _not_ let Harry die!"

She laughs, but it's a dreadful, pained sound, and it quickly dissolves into coughing and wheezing. Draco stands motionless for a moment, throat tight, hands clenched and trembling. Eventually he steps forward and raises his hand, casting a numbing spell that seems to drain some tension from the rigid lines of her body.

"Do you think your love for him is stronger than death?"

"I _know_ it is," Draco says at once.

The response has her lifting her head again. For a moment they are both still. Her gaze is measuring, his is sure. And Draco _is_ sure, more sure than he's been about anything.

"I hope you're right," she says after a lengthy pause. "For your sake. And his – and even mine, for the sake of the legacy I leave behind…"

Draco finds himself on edge again. Mercy, she'd called it. Is that what it is? His hand flexes at his side.

"The wolf will be down soon," she says. "You should do it now."

_Morality is something that must be chosen. Once you know what you would kill for, what you would die for, the only sin is betraying it._

Draco knows what he would die for. But what would he kill for? Mercy?

Greyback's heavy steps come tromping down the stairwell. Draco raises his hand again, and it trembles in the damp air of the cellar.

It's a line in the sand and Draco is toeing it. What would he kill for? What would he kill for?

"Oy, pup. She talking?"

Nothing, Draco decides. Draco will not kill. Not again. Not ever, ever again.

"Got what I needed," Draco says. "Go let His Lordship know. I'll be up to report to him as soon as I've taken care of her body."

Professor Trelawney is staring up at Draco in silence as Greyback tromps back out of the room. Draco bends down to her level and dispels the magical bindings around her ankles and wrists.

"I know a secret way out of here," he says.

She stares up at him, hazy with pain and confusion. "My fate—"

"Fuck fate," he tells her, bending down and helping her to lean on him.


	61. 31 March, 1996

_May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air._  
Franz Kafka

* * *

_Dear Harry,_ he writes, and then pauses. This is not the sort of letter that should begin with the word "dear".

He vanishes the words with a twitch of his finger and instead writes, _Harry,_ and then pauses again. He wonders for a moment how to phrase this.

_You gave me something of mine, and now I'd like to give you something of yours._

Draco stops writing and looks over at the panic button. It's sitting near the edge of the desk, a bit more scratched and scuffed than it was when Draco first made it. He licks his lips.

_I have reset the location of the portkey function,_ he writes. He stops to frown at the uneven handwriting. The trembling is better today than it is most days, but his writing is still barely legible. He flexes his hand around the quill a few times.

Draco left Grimmauld Place before he broke the Imperius curse. He knows Harry would be wiser not to trust him. Professor Snape would vouch for him, but he knows that _Harry_ knows that he could fool Professor Snape if he really wanted to. He hesitates before starting the next sentence.

_If you trust me, use it on Easter Sunday at eight o'clock in the evening. I will be waiting._

Draco takes a few breathes. He wants to say more. He wants to write "I miss you", "I love you", "I have not stopped thinking about you", "you are the only thing that keeps me going in this hellish place". He wants to write "your love saved my life".

But he knows this letter might be intercepted, and so he does not write any of that. He cannot risk it. The less context he can provide, the better. He just wishes he could think of something, anything, to assuage his suspicion and distrust.

Though with the way his hands are shaking, it will be a small miracle if the letter's even legible.

"Day-ko!"

Draco looks over his shoulder. Lyra is sitting on the floor where her half-assembled tower of blocks has collapsed under its own ineffective construction.

"Still not good with the 'R' sound, are you?"

"_Day-ko!_" she cries again, urgently, eyes welling with tears. Draco sigh-smiles and pushes off his chair, sitting down next to her on the floor.

"It's all right," he says. "Impermanence is a part of life. Everything is fleeting, but that only makes our experiences more meaningful."

"Bocks!" she says in counterpoint, grabbing a block with a big red "V" on it and giving it a toss for good measure.

"What? Not a fan of Buddhist Dharma?"

She makes a weak whining sound and reaches out to him with both hands. Deciding this tiny blonde creature has far too much power over him, Draco scoops her up and sets her in his lap.

"Bocks," she whimpers.

"I know," Draco says reassuringly, kissing the top of her head. "It's easy to be sad. Being alive means accepting harsh inevitabilities like pain and loss and death. Or block towers falling over, I guess. Everything is relative."

"Bocks," Lyra agrees.

"And sometimes it's easy to forget all the good things that come with living because the bad things seem so overwhelming. But the bad things don't diminish the good things. The good things are still worth fighting for."

Draco looks up toward the desk as Lyra tugs at his shirt. Draco wets his lips, scoops her up, and returns to the chair. He sets her down in his lap and continues the letter.

_I am fighting,_ Draco writes.


	62. 7 April, 1996

_Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time._  
Maya Angelou

* * *

From somewhere in the lower level, a clock chimes eight times. Draco counts them one by one and screws his eyes shut, willing his heart not to beat so fast.

Outside the window, the sun is setting over the hillside, washing Hogsmeade with a vibrant orange-red light. But in the two-bedroom suite, it is dark and quiet and still, lit only by a few candles that burn low.

And Draco waits. Though his hands are shaking and his head is full of dreadful possibilities, he waits.

When he hears the crack of the portkey, his heart nearly springs out of his throat. He turns around and sees Harry standing by the door, the panic button in his hand, his face set.

Draco meets his gaze and his heart _aches_ at the burning green.

"Harry…"

"Where are we?"

Draco rises up out of the chair, ignoring the waves of venom-induced pain that go radiating through his body. "Hogsmeade," he says. "The Three Broomsticks."

"So close," Harry says. The look on his face is suspicious, but Draco can see through it, to the core of it, to Harry's own heartache.

"By necessity," Draco says. "I'm just – I'm glad you came."

"Professor Snape says you broke the Imperius curse."

Draco moves forward in slow, uneven movements. "Do you believe him?"

"I want to," Harry answers. "I want to more than anything."

"But you can't," Draco says. "Not without proof. It's all right; I understand."

The pain beneath the suspicion intensifies on Harry's face. He's gripping the panic button so tightly that his knuckles turn white. It's as though looking at Draco is physically painful for him.

Draco manages to force a smile. He nods his head toward the door leading to the adjoining room in the suite, and Harry follows him, movements stiff, as Draco moves over and opens the door.

"Oh, my God," Harry says the moment he looks inside.

"Ssh."

Sound asleep in the middle of the double bed, curled around a soft white blanket, lies Lyra, her feet twitching occasionally.

"Is that—?"

"I just got her to sleep," Draco whispers.

Harry drops his voice. "That's your sister?"

"Lyra Narcissa Malfoy," he answers. "I want – take her back to Hogwarts."

Harry's head jerks around. "Take her?"

"She's not safe in the Malfoy Manor," he says. "She never really was. But now there's someplace I can finally put her where she won't be hurt."

All the careful walls that so desperately try to conceal Harry's emotions crumble down.

"This is my proof," Draco says, closing the door. "I would never trust Lyra with anyone I didn't—"

But Draco can't finish his sentence because Harry is coming at him like a force of nature, tangling his fingers in his hair and kissing him so thoroughly and desperately that at once Draco is consumed with the fire of it. They stumble until Draco's back hits the wall, and Draco's eyes burn, his throat tightens, and he throws his arms around Harry's neck and returns the kiss with everything he has.

"Draco," Harry whispers against his mouth, "oh, God, Draco—"

And _God_, to be in his arms again, to breathe in the scent of cedar and soap, to feel him, it's as though Draco is being awoken from the dead. Draco sobs and grips him more tightly, screwing his eyes shut.

"I thought – I almost let myself believe—"

"I love you," Draco interjects.

"I _love_ you," Harry says, kissing him again, pressing into him, and the heat of him burns away the venom in Draco's veins, melts the pain. "I love you so much, being without you for so long was unbearable—"

Draco cuts him off with another kiss, because for the first time in so long not only does he not feel any pain, but he feels _good_, and he _needs_ this, he needs this so badly he feels like he might die without it. He needs Harry, Harry's scent, Harry's heat, Harry's touch—

Harry makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan and presses more firmly against Draco, and those warm, calloused fingers in his hair send sparks of electricity racing up and down Draco's spine.

"There's so much we have to talk about—"

"Later," Draco begs.

"The Horcruxes, his plans—"

"Later, please later," he whispers. "The collar – the venom – it's been ages and I just – I need this, need to feel something that's not pain…"

Harry's grip on him tightens and he presses his forehead into Draco's.

"Okay," he says, and he kisses Draco again, this time on his jaw, moving lower across his neck, and _oh,_ Draco almost forgot he could feel this good, almost forgotten that pleasure this intense even existed. "Okay."

Draco shudders and the heat from Harry's lips expands across his skin. He shrugs off his outer robe and Harry's hands are on his collar, fumbling with the buttons and pulling open his shirt.

When it falls open, Harry's hands abruptly still, eyes on his chest.

Draco looks down – even in the dim candlelight, the ugly tangle of scar tissue is visible, twisted concaves of hardened flesh set against pale skin. All at once, Draco feels self-conscious.

"I…"

"I will kill him for this," Harry whispers. "I'll rip him apart—"

And then Harry is ducking his head and kissing Draco's chest and _oh, God,_ it's good, so good Draco's mind blanks with pleasure. He tangles his hands in Harry's hair and Harry's fingertips glide over his ribs, tracing patterns in his skin.

Harry tugs, and Draco follows, boneless, until he is collapsing on the bed. Harry crawls on top of him and goes right back to kissing him, and Draco melts beneath it.

"I'll never let it happen again," Harry vows, straightening briefly to pull his jumper over his head, and all those years of Quidditch have been very kind to Harry – he has a seeker's build, lean but well-constructed, with whipcord muscles under pale skin, and Draco feels ravenous at the sight of it.

Harry's mouth is on his stomach and Draco's head falls back. Teeth gnashing, hands splaying, kissing, and Draco pants and arcs and twists and gasps in time with every tiny ministration. When he feels Harry's fingers on his trousers he lifts his hips and waves his hand, disrobing them both with a clumsy spell.

When Harry leans back down, the first thing Draco feels—

"_Hnnaahh—!_"

—is Harry's mouth, hot and wet and perfect, wide against the side of his shaft, and Draco can feel every excruciating detail and it's somehow both far too much and not nearly enough at the same time. Draco trembles (for the first time in so long, from pleasure and not pain) and bucks his hips, whimpering as Harry's hand curls around, as his tongue licks thick, wet stripes up towards the head.

"Harry – oh, God—"

"Good?"

Draco tries to say "incredible", but it only comes out as a broken, desperate keening sound. Draco knots his hands in Harry's hair and writhes underneath him. Harry's mouth closes around the head and Draco's legs fall open, wanting more, needing more, needing everything. And Harry settles himself between Draco's thighs and gives it to him with every movement, every moment of unbearable perfection.

And Draco can't take it; pressure builds, tension burns, the pleasure rips him to shreds, and climax comes barrelling forward.

"Harry—" he manages, somehow, "—I – I can't – it's…"

There's a low sound of encouragement from the back of Harry's throat and his movements only increase in speed. Desperately hoping he hasn't misinterpreted the signs, Draco's eyes shut and he surrenders himself.

The plateau is an eternity of intolerable bliss knotted into a single instant; the peak is indescribable. White-hot nirvana that breaks him as it fixes him, kills him as it resurrects him. Draco is undone, shuddering and screaming and thrashing through the pulses of climax until after what must be a thousand years Draco finally has some semblance of cogent thought.

He lies trembling on his back, weightless, breathless. He feels Harry remove himself and climb back up his body.

Through the haze of post-climax Draco can see Harry's eyes blown wide with lust. He kisses Draco and presses his hips down.

"Draco…"

"Nnm."

Draco returns the kiss, arms lifting, winding around Harry's neck. Harry makes a pained sound, his length grinding into Draco's hip.

He moves his lips from Harry's mouth and to his ear. "Fuck me," he says, and it is not quite a question, but nor is it a request. Either way, it stills Harry; his body tenses.

"You're sure—?"

Draco sinks his teeth into the skin over Harry's pulse point and opens his thighs wider. Harry groans, a heavy, eager sound, and his fingernails dig into his ribs.

"Draco, please," Harry says, his voice strung taut, "don't offer this unless—"

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Draco mutters in the direction of Harry's ear, his lips ghosting over the soft skin near his jaw. "I know what I'm offering. I have never been so sure of anything."

Harry groans again, more loudly, and one of his hands moves down to grip his thigh.

"It was always you," Draco says, and his fingers twitch – a few simple, careful spells, a muscle relaxant, a lubrication charm – a combination that makes him shiver, though not unpleasantly. "I love you."

Harry kisses him with such intensity that Draco would think he was trying to swallow the words. "I love you," he answers without pulling away, and the words are muffled against Draco's mouth. He shifts his hips and Draco angles his own, tension and anticipation curling low in his stomach.

He can feel the soft head of Harry's cock pressing against him and the sensation sets off little sparks of pleasure that Draco hadn't anticipated. His toes curl and his head falls back and Harry kisses along his jaw and he pushes forward and _oh_—

Draco can feel every _inch_ of him as he moves, every individual nerve and every detail of that slow, aching burn. And Harry is moving so carefully, so slowly, so scared of hurting him, but by the sounds he is making so desperate for more.

He hilts himself fully inside of Draco and it is a strangely serene sensation. Draco tries to catch his breath as Harry stills, panting and gasping against Draco's skin.

"Good?" he asks again.

Draco spends a moment trying to come up with the right words to describe the feeling of having Harry inside him. Good? He supposes. More strange than anything, somewhat uncomfortable, a definite fullness that he can't quite—

And then Harry pulls back and thrusts at a slightly different angle and, "Hhnn_nggahhh!_ Harry – oh, God—!"

A soft rush of breath on Draco's neck. Fire, electricity, _fantastic_ pleasure – _prostate_, Draco's mind supplies by way of explanation, and he decides that they should have done this _ages_ ago – and he feels his own length stirring again, twitching back to life.

"Yes, good!" Draco says, hoping he doesn't sound quite as desperate and frantic as he feels. "It's good – it—"

Harry thrusts again, a subtle rolling of his hips that _oh, God yes yes yes yesyesyesyes_. Draco throws his head back, arcs his back, trembles, dissolves.

"Draco," Harry says, "you feel – God, you feel incredible—"

He sits up on his knees, braces himself on his elbows, and then he is thrusting in a steady rhythm and Draco might actually die from how excellent this is; he bucks and moans and moves in time with Harry, and the little pulses of electricity appear with every thrust and Draco grips him tightly lest he fall into the ether and Harry kisses him and God, he's going to come again, he would be astonished if he weren't so desperately turned-on and delirious from pleasure—

—and Harry is moaning and shaking and Draco can feel him coming inside him in pulses of surging heat and Draco spasms and reaches a second climax with a hoarse shout, and for now, there is no pain – for now, there's just this, just them, lost in each other, in love and on fire.


	63. 8 April, 1996

_We never get over our fathers, and we're not required to._  
Irish proverb

* * *

Harry wakes up when Draco rolls over on top of him.

"Good morning," Draco says.

He grins sleepily. "It is, isn't it?"

Draco laughs and kisses him. They are a tangled mess of limbs and sheets, lying in a stripe of warm, golden sunlight. Draco really hadn't intended things to go this way, but after hours of spectacular sex (that only got more excellent with further practice), he finds he can't be too upset about it. Everything is hazy and muted and nice, and even the pain from the collar seems distant as Harry's teeth tug gently at Draco's lower lip.

"We really do have so much to talk about," Harry says as his fingertips glide down Draco's spine, "and we should definitely not have sex again."

"I agree," Draco answers, tossing his sleep-matted hair out of his face and straddling Harry's waist. "At this point, it would be borderline irresponsible."

Harry doesn't respond, though his eyes do move up and down Draco's bare stomach appreciatively, and despite all the ugly scars Draco feels gorgeous under Harry's gaze.

"We did get a little bit of talking in, at least," Draco says. "In between rounds four and five."

Harry hums. A smirk tugs at his lips. "I quite liked round four."

"I could tell."

Draco leans down and kisses him, and Harry's usual scent of cedar and soap is tempered with the heady smell of sex. It is a fantastic combination, Draco decides.

Draco is halfway prepared to waste another hour like this when he feels a sudden jolt of pain from his arm. He sits upright and his eyes move down to his Dark Mark.

Harry looks at it, too. It is glowing bright red. Draco grits his teeth and grips it.

"Is that—?" Harry begins, but Draco cuts him off.

"I have to go," Draco says. He climbs off the bed and casts a quick _scourgify_, followed by a few spells to tame his hair.

"Draco, you can't—"

"I'm still – for lack of better term – undercover," Draco says, hurrying to grab his clothes.

"And how long are you planning on keeping that up?"

"Not much longer," he promises. He looks across at Harry and flinches at the look of worried dejection on his face. "I'm trying to destabilize the Ministry of Magic. I'm the one who designed the shadow government; I'm the only one who can start the process of taking it apart."

"We need you with the Order," Harry says. "Safe."

"I will be," he promises. He throws on his robe and moves to the bedside, stealing a last kiss. "As soon as I can, I swear I will be. You'll take care of Lyra?"

"Of course I will, but Draco—"

"I left you the food she likes and her blanket and toys in the shrinking bag. She really likes the lullaby _Fais dodo_ – look it up."

"Draco…"

"I'll write you soon," Draco promises. He kisses him again, because how could he not, before straightening and using his portkey back to the Malfoy Manor.

"—_is he?_" thunders a familiar voice before Draco has entirely gained his bearings. Draco straightens and hurries toward the source of the voice – the drawing room.

The moment he pushes into the drawing room, several sets of eyes turn to him.

Draco notices several things all at once and connects them just as quickly:

One, Professor Snape is lying beside the fireplace, his body contorted in agony. The Dark Lord is standing over him, wand in hand, red eyes all but glowing with hatred. The room is permeated with the smell of Dark Magic, and it is obvious that the Cruciatus curse has recently been cast.

Two, many of the other Death Eaters have not yet arrived, but they are scrambling through the other doorways leading into the drawing room when Draco makes his appearance. This meeting must have been unplanned.

Three, Lord Voldemort is staring at Draco with murder in his eyes.

The obvious, dangerous conclusion: the Dark Lord knows.

"_Draco,_" he hisses. "_Where is your sister?_"

Draco sets his face and doesn't answer. He is suddenly aware of the fact that he is in an extremely dangerous situation. He flexes his hand at his side, mind racing, trying to put together an escape route that will get him and Professor Snape out. The possibilities are extremely, worryingly limited.

"Shall I _order_ you to answer, little bird?" he snarls, voice rising, stalking forward.

"That would be rather pointless, don't you think?" Draco answers.

"Treacherous little whelp, you _dare_ speak to me like that—!"

"I dare and I _relish_," he says through his teeth, because there's no point in holding back, not anymore. "I am not your plaything any longer!"

A spark of blinding red magic and a shout; Draco counters it with a shield, but the spell rebounds and shatters a mirror on the wall with a tremendous sound. The Dark Lord's lips curl back from his teeth and he stalks forward.

"Ungrateful little _vermin!_" he bellows. "I would have had you at my side! You would have tasted true power!"

"I would rather _die_ than be second to a _lunatic—!_"

"_That can be arranged!_"

And as he raises his wand, there's another flash of red light from the side and Lord Voldemort snarls in sudden pain – and before Draco can identify the spell that was cast—

"Father!"

And there he is, appearing from nowhere, all taut muscles and burning eyes, standing in front of Draco with his wand out and ready.

"_Do not touch my son!_"

All of Draco's plans about getting himself and Professor Snape out go out the window with this development. His mind spins as he tries to come up with a new plan, but he can't, more Death Eaters are arriving, there are too many variables, how is he—

"Something in the Malfoy bloodline," the Dark Lord says, his voice deadly. "Traitors, all."

"You took my wife from me, you _creature_, but you _will not_ have my son!"

"Stand down, Lucius!" comes another voice, and Draco recognizes it as Bellatrix's. "You're outnumbered!"

And he is – or rather, they are. Greyback, Avery, Nott, Goyle, Rodolphus, they're all filtering into the drawing room from the far doors, wands out, and the Dark Lord approaches.

"He will die screaming," Lord Voldemort snarls. "I will break his body and mind and soul and he will beg for death before the end. And so will you!"

"Draco, run," Lucius says as the Death Eaters converge.

Draco looks from his father to Professor Snape to the Dark Lord to the other Death Eaters and he can't think of a way out, there is no way out, he can't save everyone, he can't, he can't—

"Father—" Draco says, finding that he can barely speak.

"_Run!_" he cries. "I couldn't save you from torture or your mother from death, but I can do this; _run, now!_"

And Draco knows there is no other way – it's run now or die – but for a moment he can't move, he can't even breathe – his father – Professor Snape – no, no, no, please no—

The spells start to fly and the shock of sound and energy and light sends Draco running, pushing back out of the drawing room and running, running – behind him, the clash and clatter of magic, screaming, dreadful screaming, he runs and runs out the door of the Malfoy Manor and his father is dead, his father is dead, and all Draco can do is run.


	64. 10 April, 1996

_Destiny is not a matter of chance; it's a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it's a thing to be achieved._  
William Jennings Bryan

* * *

"Mr. Malfoy!"

The arc of golden light that comes glaring out from the castle is enough to make Draco squint. He can't make out the details of the figure at the door, but the voice and stature tell him enough, and after nearly three days on the lam, it's still a damn good sight.

"Professor Flitwick…"

"Come in, come in! The headmaster sent me down to fetch you the moment he got your owl – oh, goodness, don't you look a sight!"

Draco has no doubts. Voldemort's grip on the Ministry is too tight to risk travelling through any official channels. Draco has spent the last few days moving north into Scotland via an uncomfortable but unpredictable combination of brooms, bootleg portkeys, and Muggle trains. When he could not find accommodations, he conjured tents and slept in the forest.

"Where's Professor Snape?" he asks as soon as Professor Flitwick closes the door.

"He's been missing—"

"_Damn it._" He wasn't able to escape, then. Draco can imagine, all too well, what he's being put through. The thought makes him ragged and raw and he has to _do_ something, _anything_. "Please – I need to see Dumbledore—"

"Yes, my boy, of course," Professor Flitwick says. "He told me to take you straight to him – come, come, this way."

He follows Professor Flitwick through the castle who leaves him at the Headmaster's office ("Jelly Babies"), trying not to think about what Professor Snape is going through.

As soon as he makes it to the top of the spiral staircase and through the double doors leading inside, the first thing he sees—

"Harry!"

"_Day-ko Day-ko Day-ko Day-ko Day-ko!_"

Draco nearly sobs in relief at the sight of them, two of the most important people in his world, both alive, both well, both _safe_, with Lyra squirming in Harry's arms and reaching out for him. He closes the distance between them, gripping Harry's hands with his own and burying his face in Lyra's hair, and they're fine, he chants to himself, they're fine, they're both fine.

"You're okay," Harry breathes. "Professor Dumbledore called me in – he wouldn't say—"

"He knows," Draco says. "Voldemort knows. He figured it out when he saw Lyra missing."

"She's missed you," Harry says, sounding choked and a bit teary. "She barely sleeps."

"Oh, my sweet girl," Draco says, taking her when Harry passes her off and hugging her to his chest. Her tiny arms grip him tightly around the neck.

"Mr. Malfoy."

Draco turns. Professor Dumbledore is standing at his desk, expression soft.

"I understand you missed your sister, but there are things—" he begins, but Draco cuts him off.

"There are exactly three Horcruxes left," he says, because there's no point in mincing words. "There's Nagini, his familiar; Helga Hufflepuff's goblet, which is tucked away in a rift outside space and time – long story, I'll explain later; and then there's the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, which is in the Room of Hidden Things. The diary and the locket are on their way to the sun, and the ring – unless I'm much mistaken, Headmaster – was destroyed by you."

His words seem to quiet the room. Even Lyra stops fussing. Professor Dumbledore is staring at him, silent and just a little bit astonished.

"Well," Professor Dumbledore says after a moment. "If there was any lingering doubt as to your true allegiance, I suppose that's been erased."

"He's not going to take my defection well," Draco continues. "I had wanted to do it on my own terms, to catch him off-guard, but obviously things haven't gone to plan."

"Day-ko," Lyra sighs contentedly into his neck.

"Under the circumstances, you've performed admirably," Professor Dumbledore says.

"Professor Snape has been taken prisoner."

"We know," Harry says grimly, and Draco looks over at him.

"You do?"

"The visions have been getting more frequent lately," he explains. "I – I saw – like I saw with you."

Draco frowns, swallows. He does not envy Harry this bizarre, inexplicable connection he has to the Dark Lord.

"Our first priority needs to be getting him out," Draco says.

"That won't be easy," Professor Dumbledore says, frowning. "The Malfoy Manor, as you know, is extremely well-fortified and -warded. And I'm sure they've already been changed from the ones you remember."

"I know it won't be easy," Draco returns. "I didn't expect it to be. But there's no other choice. We can't just leave him there."

Harry nods. Professor Dumbledore hesitates, opening his mouth as if to make a point, but seems to second-guess himself and eventually nods as well.

"Very well," he says, "but we must be quick with it. Voldemort's grip on Hogwarts is tightening, and he will not slow down now that he knows you're here. Then there's the matter of the four remaining Horcruxes."

"I'll come up with something," Draco says. "There's one other thing."

Draco wets his lips as they both look to him expectantly.

"There's a prophecy," he continues. "It's about Harry."

Harry narrows his eyes in confusion. But to Draco's surprise, Professor Dumbledore has no discernible reaction. He spends a moment wondering how—

—and then, all at once, it hits him. His mind races ahead of the rest of him, and all the dots connect.

Whereas: Professor Dumbledore is not surprised at the existence of a prophecy about Harry because he already knows, thus explaining his desire to test Harry's "character and mettle" in his first year.

Whereas: knowing about the prophecy means knowing about Harry's foretold death, though clearly Harry does not know.

Whereas—

"Four Horcuxes," Draco says. "You said four Horcuxes, you said—"

"Mr. Malfoy—"

—it's all jumbled, the facts come rapid fire, tumbling one after the other – four Horcruxes, Harry's prophesied death, _a power the Dark Lord knows not_, the visions, the Parseltongue, _oh, God_ – Draco's mind stutters to a halt—

"You son of a bitch," Draco says. His body is trying to catch up with his mind, but the coldness and the rage is already there, a raw, instinctual reaction. "You _son of a bitch._"

"Draco," Harry says, frowning. "You're doing that thing where you're fifty steps ahead and not explaining—"

"_How long have you known._"

Professor Dumbledore is not having any trouble keeping up, clearly. He stares at Draco with an even, tragic gaze.

"_Answer me!_" Draco shouts suddenly, and the sound of it startles Lyra and starts her crying. Harry jerks back in similar surprise.

"Since before the Triwizard Tournament," Professor Dumbledore replies. "When Harry had his first vision."

"_Two years!_" Draco cries, and Lyra wails even louder. "For _two years_ you knew – you _knew_ and you never _said_ – you never even thought to _mention—!_"

"Draco, what are you—" Harry begins.

"I'm so _stupid,_" Draco says, knotting a hand in his hair as Lyra cries. "I should have known, should have seen it – there are a million ways Dark Magic can leave lasting effects and connections, but it was more than that, it was always more than that, I should have _known_—"

"You couldn't have known," Professor Dumbledore says gently.

"Then _you should have told me!_ You should have told _Harry!_"

"I did what I thought was best."

"_It is not your life! You do not get to decide what is best!_" he shouts. "That's always what it comes down to with you, isn't it? Doing 'what you think is best' – putting peoples' lives in danger, keeping secrets—!"

"It is the fate of the Wizarding World!" Professor Dumbledore suddenly bellows, slamming his palms onto his desk. "Who are you to say one life means more than all magical civilization?"

"Who am I? _Who are you?_ What gives _you_ the right to decide what's important?"

"Will someone _please tell me what's going on!_" Harry cries suddenly.

Draco sets his jaw. He meets Dumbledore's gaze unflinchingly, challengingly, and Dumbledore does not shy away from it.

"At least Voldemort is honest about his intentions," Draco hisses as Lyra sobs into his shoulder. "You… you're a far worse breed of maniac. Harry is not your chess piece."

He storms from the office before Dumbledore can respond. He soothes Lyra with his shaking hands – shaking from the venom, or maybe from the sheer, blood-curdling rage, he doesn't know – and makes his way out. He hears Harry at his heels.

"Draco! Draco, wait!"

He stops when he reaches the corridor and leans against the wall, stroking Lyra's back and trying to calm her, or maybe himself, down.

"You can't just – what the hell was – _what happened?_"

Harry looks frantic, confused, terrified. Draco can't blame him. He stares at him and the words catch in his throat, and for a moment he wonders if _this_ is why Dumbledore never told him, because he couldn't bear looking into the face of a teenager and saying—

"You're a Horcrux."

Harry's reaction is not immediate. His mouth is open slightly, his brow furrowed.

"And the prophecy…" Draco swallows, shuts his eyes. "I'll – come on, I'll explain."


	65. 15 May, 1996

_Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict._  
Jim Morrison

* * *

For one instant, one terrible, fleeting moment, Draco thinks he sees the metal start to warp.

The frostflame burns cold, bright blue against glossy silver, and he tries, he tries _so hard_ to focus, to concentrate, to keep his hand steady, just for a little while, just long enough to—

"_Damn it!_"

He presses the warm cloth to his jaw, over the streak of frostbitten skin. It's not the first time he's injured himself with the frostflame spell tonight, but Draco thinks it might be the last.

This isn't working, clearly. Nothing is working.

Nothing can get the _damned collar off_.

"All right?" Harry asks from the other side of the room. Dumbledore has given Draco quarters in one of the disused prefect bedrooms – a small but handsome room with a large window and a double bed, with a chair transfigured into a cot for Lyra.

"It's not working," Draco says, voice tight and clipped. "Nothing's _working_."

"We'll come up with something," Harry says. "We can find a curse breaker, maybe—"

"The fucking thing isn't even _cursed,_" Draco snaps. "It's doesn't even use Dark Magic, it's just spellwork, and the layers of magic are so damned tight that I can't even tell them apart!"

"Well," Harry returns, patiently, "I doubt Voldemort got to where he is by being a shit wizard."

Draco stands up so abruptly that he knocks his chair over. It clatters loudly against the floor, and Lyra, playing with her stuffed dragon, yelps in surprise.

"Draco," Harry says.

"I wanted the damn thing _off,_" he says, clawing at the skin around the collar to scratch an itch that isn't there. "I want it _off_, Harry. I can't _handle it anymore_."

"I know," Harry says.

"I have other things I need to think about!" Draco continues, voice rising in volume, and he feels like every nerve in his body is fraying at the end, unraveling. "I need to come up with a way to break into the Malfoy Manor and rescue Professor Snape and I need to figure out how to dismantle a shadow government and win a bloody damned _war_ and I _can't_ because I can't get this _fucking collar off!_"

"Draco, you're frightening Lyra."

"How am I supposed to _focus?_" He keeps clawing at the collar, tugging desperately, but it just keeps stinging him, second by second, drop by drop, tiny pulses of deadly venom nullified only by dangerous antivenom. "How can I _think_ when I just – the fucking _venom_, and I can't – and my father and Professor Snape and – and the _prophecy_, and _you_ and – I can't _do_ it—"

And Draco realizes, for the first time, the truth of the words.

"I can't _do_ it," he says, sinking against the wall, and he feels his voice breaking under the strain of the understanding. "I can't do it, it's too much, I can't. I can't _do_ this, Harry."

He hears Harry stand up from where he'd been playing with Lyra on the floor and walk toward him, but Draco barely hears him.

"I can't fall asleep without dreaming about my mother's gutted corpse or my father taking a Killing Curse for me," Draco says, and the trembling turns into full-on shaking, and his eyes are burning, and it's getting hard to breathe. "I can't go a single hour without thinking about what they must be putting Professor Snape through, without thinking about the fucking prophecy that says you have to _die_—"

"Draco."

"—and I just can't _do_ it, Harry, I can't! I'm just one person! I can't handle my parents' deaths, my godfather's torture, my boyfriend's foretold doom and what I am beginning to suspect is an untreated case of PTSD and still win a fucking war!"

"Draco!"

There are hands on his face, and Draco collapses under his own weight. Harry is there to catch him, figuratively and literally, and lower them both onto the floor. Draco holds onto him for dear life, face buried in the front of Harry's robes, and breaks down.

"Draco, I know you don't see it," Harry says into his hair, "but you are so much stronger than you realize. What you went through would have killed anyone else. That you're still even here, still thinking, still functioning, still a bloody _genius_ is incredible. You can do this, I _know_ you can, because you practically already _have_.

"And even if you can't do this alone, that's okay. You aren't alone. You have me, you have the Order and the DA, we'll all help you."

Draco hears his words and wants so desperately to be comforted by them, but hope seems impossible – and beyond that, hope seems like lunacy. What is there to be hopeful for? Draco can't see past the dreadful, venomous darkness that shrouds his mind. He can't see past the vivid memories of his parents dying, of his godfather being tortured, of Harry's death-yet-to-come.

"Day-ko dagon."

It is perhaps the only thing that can distract Draco from the abyss that is his mind. He looks over at Lyra, who has crawled over toward him with her stuffed dragon and is holding it out to him urgently.

"Dagon," she says again.

"I think she wants you to feel better," Harry says, smiling, and Draco takes a few hoarse, shuddering breathes and scrapes at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "She's giving you her dragon."

"Thank you, Lyra," Draco manages, gently taking the dragon and hugging it – more for Lyra's benefit than his own. Lyra seems pleased, and sits down next to them.

"Not even a year old and already looking out for others," Harry says, stroking a hand through her hair. "Don't be alarmed, Draco, but I think your sister might be a Hufflepuff."

"Harry dagon?" Lyra asks.

"I think your big brother needs it more than I do, but thank you."

"Day-ko dagon," Lyra answers, apparently understanding.

"How come she can say the 'R' in your name?" Draco can't help but ask, though his voice is still wet and strained with tears.

"She likes me better, obviously," Harry says, sounding more than a bit cheeky. He scoops her up and sets her in his lap. He tickles her and she lets out an uproarious laugh, squirming in his arms.

Despite himself, Draco smiles.

"I can't believe you're the one comforting me," Draco says. "You're the one who…"

The smile on Harry's face fades, but only fractionally. He stops tickling Lyra, who grabs two fingers of his hand as a defensive measure.

"Well," Harry answers, slowly, "I won't lie and say I'm happy about it, but I guess if it is my destiny to die, I might as well enjoy the ride."

"I don't believe in destiny," Draco says him, and Harry smiles bitterly. "I'm serious. To hell with the prophecy. We should talk to Trelawney. I bet she could—"

"Draco," Harry says, "did no one tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Harry frowns. "Professor Trelawney is dead," he tells him softly. "She died of her wounds not long after you got her to safety."

Draco opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

At once, he thinks back to the conversation they'd had just after Greyback had finished with her, about how certain she was that she was going to die. He also thinks back to how he'd flown in the face of it and broken her out anyway, in some furious attempt to defy fate.

Maybe, Draco thinks with sudden, brutal, painful clarity, that is what destiny _is_. Maybe destiny can't be defied at all, simply because there's nothing to defy, because it exists independent of human experience.

Maybe Harry really will die. Maybe it doesn't matter what Draco does.

They sit for a while in silence, and Draco's head is full of thoughts of time and chaos and fate in the shape of spiderwebs.


	66. 20 June, 1996

_There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he must take it because conscience tells him it is right._  
Martin Luther King, Jr.

* * *

"These are certainly lofty goals, Mr. Malfoy."

"I know," Draco concedes as they leave her office. "Can you do it?"

Professor McGonagall looks again at the long roll of parchment covered in Draco's notes. The severe lines of her face are contorted into a frown.

"Yes," she says eventually. "Not on my own, of course – for sheer volume of spellwork, we'll need all the professors and many more volunteers besides, but yes. I think it is doable."

"Good."

"Do you have a time frame in mind?"

"As soon as possible," Draco admits. "At the moment this whole situation is stuck in some sort of political limbo, but I don't imagine things will stay that way forever. The sooner we can prepare for the inevitable crisis, the better."

"If I may ask – did you come up with all of this yourself?"

Draco raises an eyebrow and doesn't answer. Profesor McGonagall allows herself a vague smirk before folding the parchment up and tucking it into her robe.

"I'd be careful, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall says. "With the way the Ministry is behaving these days, I don't imagine such aggressive genius will be approved of."

Draco long ago became immune to compliments, particularly relating to his intellect, but he does his best not to be ungracious. "If you come up with any questions, you know where to find me."

She inclines her head, Draco inclines his, and they part ways. It is for that reason that Draco has always quite liked Professor McGonagall: she has the unique gift of succinctness in her dealings.

As soon as he makes it into the corridor, he throws on Harry's invisibility cloak. Draco knows that Voldemort knows (and therefore that Avery knows) that Draco is in Hogwarts, but he can't risk making it obvious. Ever since escaping the Malfoy Manor, Draco has become a known fugitive, wanted for unspecified "crimes against the Ministry". Draco can't give Avery a reason to call in aurors on him.

So most of his days are spent like this: moving from room to room under the safety of Harry's invisibility cloak, deftly avoiding Avery and the more zealous supporters of the Ministry and their recent surge of interest in blood purism, while he plots an intricate map of the coming war and how they intend to fight in it.

He is halfway back to his room when he hears familiar voices shouting down the hallway, and he slows to a stop.

"—will not _allow_ it!"

"This is not yours to allow or disallow! This is a Ministry affidavit!"

"To hell with the Ministry and its affidavits! The system is broken beyond repair and I will not allow you to oust our Headmaster!"

Draco takes in a breath and hurries toward the source of the sounds.

"I would advise that you step out of the way," snarls a low voice that Draco recognizes as Avery's, and when he comes around the corner he seems him glaring down at Professor Flitwick, who is so livid that he is almost shaking.

"Filius," says Professor Dumbledore, who is just behind Avery, "please."

"No!" Professor Flitwick cries. "Albus, I will not stand for this!"

"It is the opinion of the Minister, after considerable review," Avery says sharply, "that Albus Dumbledore is unfit for his current position of Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and that effective immediately, he is to be removed from the position—"

"If you think for a _moment_ that we don't see right through your motivations, you are out of your mind!" Professor Flitwick says shrilly, gesticulating wildly with both hands. "This has nothing to do with Albus's suitability as headmaster and everything to do with his political leanings and how he refuses to act a sycophant to the Ministry's agenda!"

"Careful, _Filius,_" Avery snarls. "You're starting to sound a bit unfit, yourself."

"_I will not be bullied by a Death Eater!_"

"Gentlemen, please," Professor Dumbledore says warily.

This is bad – _very_ bad. Draco knows exactly how much sway Avery – or to be more specific, Voldemort – has within the Ministry these days, and how quickly he could bring ruin not only to Professors Flitwick and Dumbledore, but to Hogwarts. And beyond that, Draco knows that Avery has a temper, and is nearly as skilled a duelist as Professor Flitwick, if not more so.

This is happening more quickly than Draco had anticipated it would. He realizes that there is no longer any time. The lines have to be drawn – and drawn now.

"Step out of the way, _goblin,_" Avery snarls, moving forward with a steady and dangerous gait, producing his wand from his pocket, "or you will be carried out in _pieces_."

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Avery lets out a shout and his wand flies from his hand, skittering across the floor. He whirls on a foot just as Draco pulls off the invisibility cloak.

"Keep away from my head of house, Avery."

The expression on his face is inscrutable – some combination of anger and surprise and certainty.

"And _now_ Hogwarts is harboring _known fugitives_."

"Mr. Malfoy," Professor Dumbledore says. "What are you—?"

"Time's up," Draco answers before he can finish the question. "This is where it must start, Headmaster. There's no other option."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Professor Flitwick asks lowly.

"It has less to do with wisdom and more to do with necessity."

"I am sure the Minister will be very interested to know that Draco Malfoy is being harbored here, and I'm sure the repercussions will be—"

"Yes," Draco interjects, stepping forward, "go. Go tell them I'm here. Tell them that this school has been hiding a fugitive and a traitor. Tell them all about it. And then just _try_ to change it."

"Henceforth," Professor Dumbledore says, slowly, reluctantly, "Hogwarts as an institution and body defects from the control of the Ministry of Magic. We will no longer recognize or respect their authority."

Avery's dark eyes dart between them. His lips are pulled back from his teeth. "You really believe you can keep this up?" he asks, voice dangerous. "One school against the entire government? This will be seen as sedition, an act of war against the Ministry—"

"You've seen what I can do, Avery," Draco says, stepping forward, hand flexing at his side. "Your puppet regime only exists as a product of my imagination. You know what I'm capable of. So ask yourself – _really_ ask yourself—"

—he comes to a stop in front of Avery, eyes narrowed, body taut—

"—do you honestly think you can _stop_ me?"

Avery does not answer. His face speaks of cool impassiveness, but Draco can see, deep under the surface, the tremors and ripples of uncertainty.

"Go tell your master what you've seen," Draco snarls. "And make sure he knows that I'm not scared of him."


	67. 21 June, 1996

_We will grieve not, rather find  
Strength in what remains behind;  
In the primal sympathy  
Which having been must ever be._  
William Wordsworth

* * *

"We will be putting up what is called a ward of intention," McGonagall calls out to the group of people before which she is amassed. "A complicated spell on its own right, and one made all the more difficult by sheer size…"

"Lyra, stop fussing—"

"That! That!"

"Ssh," Harry says, "hush."

"I think she wants to play with the butterflies," Draco says.

"… will encompass not just the grounds of Hogwarts, but Hogsmeade as well…"

"That!" Lyra squirms and kicks Harry in the ribs in the process of reaching out towards the patch of lavender, which is swarmed with monarch butterflies. "Play!"

"Ssh!" Harry says again. "Be quiet, Lyra, you have to be quiet, sweetie."

"… pool our magical energy in order to cast it at the necessary strength and flexibility. This is not an easy process, but it is one which will—"

"_Play!_" Lyra insists, all but falling out of Harry's arms in an attempt to get to the butterflies. A few people toward the back of the group give them dirty looks. Draco smiles apologetically.

Harry groans. "We should have left her with the house-elves."

"She needs to spend more time outside," Draco says. "Studies have shown that early exposure to the outdoors boosts immune function."

"When the hell have you had time to research that?"

"… if successful, will act as a barrier to anyone whose intentions are not pure. That is to say, no one will be able to pass through the ward who means to do anything duplicitous. The incantation to pool magical energy…"

"I can speed read," Draco answers.

"Of course you can," Harry says, looking exhausted, but grinning. Lyra keeps squirming in his arms and making grabbing motions in the direction of the butterflies.

"Hi, Harry," comes a voice from behind, dizzy and vague and familiar. When Draco turns, Luna is approaching, her blonde hair bright in the summer sun, Hermione at her side.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione says, "hi, Draco."

"Hi!" Lyra interjects, momentarily distracted from the butterflies. "Hi" is a new word for her, one which she has been using at every opportunity.

"Hello, Lyra," Luna says.

"Luna, Hermione, what are you doing out here?" Harry asks.

"Looking for you," Luna answers. "I thought we should tell you – we found the diadem."

Draco gives a start. "You did?"

"It wasn't easy," she says, and when Lyra reaches out for her necklace of butterbeer corks, Luna slips it off her neck and hands it to her without compunction. "It took us several weeks. It got a lot easier once Professor Avery left. He was also looking for it."

Lyra gums enthusiastically on some of the butterbeer corks, but her eyes are back on the butterflies near the patch of lavender.

"She's so cute," Hermione says, making what is clearly a concerted effort not to look too smitten.

"Do you have it on you?" Draco asks.

"What?"

"The diadem," Draco says. "Do you have it on you?"

"Oh," Hermione says. "Yes, it's—"

She reaches into her bag and produces a small magical lockbox – likely, Draco surmises, the one Professor Flitwick had her make as an exercise – and hands it to Draco. When Draco opens it, he's nearly knocked flat with the scent of Dark Magic.

"Yeah," he says, "that's definitely a Horcrux. I can't believe you found it; well done."

"Can I hold her?" Hermione asks, clearly not listening.

"Everyone form a circle!" comes Professor McGonagall's voice.

"Actually, that would be brilliant," Harry says. "Could you take her to that patch of lavender? She wants to play with the – ow! Lyra, stop kicking me!"

She's reaching out for the butterflies with one hand and gnawing at Luna's butterbeer cork necklace with the other, as if she can't decide where her attention should be.

"We'll look after her," Hermione assures him, and the minute Harry passes her off, Hermione, by her expression, forgets Harry and Draco still exist.

"Legs that strong, she'll be a fine flyer," Harry says, rubbing his ribs.

Draco shuts the magical lockbox and slips it into his messenger bag as they move to join the circle. "I'll have to build another teapot rocket," Draco says.

"Surely there's an easier way to destroy a Horcrux than launching it into the sun."

The circle of people is nearly fifty yards across, comprised of what looks like every professor and faculty member at Hogwarts as well as several people from Hogsmeade. Draco and Harry insert themselves into the ring. Draco takes Harry's hand as well as the hand of Professor Sprout, next to him, who smiles cheerfully in his direction.

"If there is," Draco says as the crowd quiets, "I haven't thought of one."

"_Incantatem junctim,_" Professor McGonagall says.

"_In junctim opis,_" choruses the rest of the circle, and at once, Draco feels a sensation that starts in his fingertips and quickly courses through his entire body.

It is a raw, visceral feeling, profound and uncomplicated – pure magical energy, pooled and amplified. It is strong, stronger than Draco expected or prepared for.

It is incredible.

"_Incantatem junctim,_" Professor McGonagall says again.

"_In junctim opis,_" repeats the rest, though Draco finds himself strangely speechless. For a moment Draco is not sure what about this sensation is so breathtaking, what about it makes his throat tight and his eyes burn, until it occurs to him—

"_Incantatem junctim._"

"_In junctim opis._"

—it's the _connection_. He feels it with everyone in the circle, with Harry and Professor McGonagall and Madame Hooch and the dozen strangers from Hogsmeade. It is strong and foundational like the earth, deep and quiet like the sea. It is binding them together, stripping away all the petty things that divide and making Draco so incredibly, acutely _aware_ – aware of life and consciousness and shared experience and spirit—

There is a thrum of magic, deep and sonorous, and the air around them turns deep violet before exploding outward with a _crash_ of sound and light and energy, in an ever-expanding dome that grows until it brushes the sky, until Hogwarts is shrouded, until the ward is secure, an invisible barrier.

And Draco's entire life has changed, somehow, in some inexplicable way.

He feels the ties that bind him to everything – not just the people in the circle, but all consciousness, all life – and he is reminded of what makes him strong, of what he is fighting for. For an instant, he sees through all the abstract rules that govern the universe and observes the beautiful design in the chaos. He is conscious. He is alive.

"Draco, are you all right?"

Draco looks over at Harry, but he can't answer.

"You have made yourselves enemies of the state today," Professor McGonagall says somberly. "You have slung the first spell in a war. There will be dark times ahead."

"You're crying…"

Harry pulls his hand from Draco's and swipes his thumb across Draco's cheek, smearing the tears that Draco did not realize were there. Draco leans into his hand and shuts his eyes.

"There are those that say despair is only a state of mind," Professor McGonagall continues. "Those people have never fought in a war. Despair is fearing for your life, for the future and safety of your children; despair is taking a stand against the evils of the world while knowing that it may not make a difference. Despair is war."

"Human consciousness is a miracle," Draco says.

"What?"

"But there are things worth fighting for," she says, "worth dying for. And despair, at its very blackest, is a reminder of those things, in the same way pain is a reminder of being alive."

Draco closes the gap between them and buries himself in Harry. He breathes in the scent of cedar and soap and relishes in it.

"All right, hugging is nice," he says. "I don't quite understand why it's happening, but it's nice."

"Find what you fight for and hold onto it," Professor McGonagall says. "And when you despair, remember it."

"I love you so much," Draco says into Harry's chest.

"Draco, are you really all right?"

"I'm wonderful," he says, and he is. He is a part of a grand, chaotic, impossible design. He is despairing and hopeful and shattered and whole all at once. He is the universe experiencing itself.

For the first time in so many months, he feels steady. Still broken, maybe – still hurting, still frightened – but reassured.

He remembers his meaning and why he chose it.


End file.
